THE 



SKETCH-BOOK 



OF 



GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT 



By WASHINGTON IRVING 



A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, 

53-58 DuANE Street, New York. 






EXCHANGE 

5 

JUr. 12 19-^4 
Serial Record Division ! 
k Libfar? ci 

Copy ™ i 



TO 






r 



SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart., 



THIS WORK IS DEDICATED, IN TESTIMONY OF THE 



ADMIRATION AND AFFECTION OF 



THE AUTHOR. 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 



"Washington" Irving, the author of this famous book, was 
the first American writer Avho gained an European reputa- 
tion solely on the ground of his literary ability. His 
father, who was a considerable merchant of New York, 
educated Washington for the legal profession; but the 
young man delighted in literature, and made little effort to 
practice at the bar. ''Knickerbocker's History of New 
York,''" written by Irving, appeared in 1809, when the 
author was twenty-six years old, and its originality, quaint 
ness and drollery gave him high rank as a delicate humorist. 
He visited England, where he was welcomed in the highest 
literary circles, Moore, Jeffrey, Campbell, Scott and other 
distinguished men being among his intimate friends. The 
publisher, Murray, at first refused to print the " Sketch- 
Book ;" but through the influence of Sir Walter Scott, who 
was enthusiastic in his admiration of Irving, Murray 
brought out the book in 1820. It had already commenced 
to appear in periodical form in the United States, and it 
speedily obtained a very great fame on both sides of the 
Atlantic, which it holds with undiminished lustre to-day, 
and will hold it so long as the love of classic English shall 
endure. The book is refined, poetical and picturesque, 
full of quaint humor, exquisite feeling, and a thorough 
knowledge of human nature. Robert Colly er tells us 
that to the "Sketch-Book" was largely due his early thirst 
for good reading, which laid the foundation of his suc- 
ce^sj and probably it would be difficult to find a persou 



6 INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 

who is familiar with its pages wno does not cherish it as one 
of his most valued possessions. '* The Spectre Bridegroom/* 
" The Broken Heart," " The Legend of Sleepy Hollow/* 
" The Christmas Dinner/* *' Rip Van Winkle/* " The Art 
of Book-Making/* *• The Mntahility of Literature/* and 
** The Country Church,'* are among the most charming 
pieces of fancy and picturesque word-painting to be found 
in any language. The best of it all is that the line quali- 
ties of his writings represented the real qualities of liis own 
nature. The book is an expression of the man, and daily 
converse with it cannot fail to give us something of the 
beauty, sweetness and nobility of his nature. 

In 1832, after an absence of seventeen years, Irving 
returned to the United States to find his name a house- 
hold word. He built a home on the Hudson, and con- 
tinued his literary work until his death in 1859. Many 
books came from his facile pen besides those of which we 
have spoken, among them a ''Life of Washington.'* He 
never married, being true to an early love that was blighted 
by death; but many a beautiful maiden loves him now, 
and many a scholar keeps him in his heart with Shakes- 
peare, Bacon, Emerson, Scott, and all the noblest and best 
whose lives are with us in their books. 

Frank Parsons, 



ADVERTISEMENT 

TO THE 

FIRST AMERICAN EDITION. 



The following writings are published on experiment; 
should they please, they may be followed by others. The 
writer will have to contend with some disadvantages. He 
is unsettled in his abode, subject to interruptions, and has 
his share of cares and vicissitudes. He cannot, therefore, 
])romise a regular plan, nor regular periods of publication. 
(Should he be encouraged to proceed, much time may elapse 
between the appearance of his numbers ; and their size will 
depend on the materials he may have ou hand. His writ- 
ings will partake of the fluctuations of his own thoughts 
and feelings; sometimes treating of scenes before him, 
sometimes of others pui-ely imaginary, and sometimes wan- 
dering back with his recollections to his native country. 
He will not be able to give them that tranquil attention 
necessary to finished composition; and as they must be 
transmitted across the Atlantic for publication, he will 
have to trust to others to correct the frequent errors of 
the press. Should his writings, however, with all their 
imperfections, be well received, he cannot conceal that it 
would be a source of the purest gratification ; for though 
he does not aspire to those high honors which are the 
rewards of loftier intellects, yet it is the dearest wish of 
his heart to have a secure and cherished, though humble, 
corner in the good opinions and kind feelings of his 
countrymen. 

London, 1819. 



ADVERTISEMENT 

TO THE 

FIRST ENGLISH EDITION. 



The following desultory papers are part of a series 
written in this country but published ki America. The 
author is aware of the austerity with which the writings of 
his countrymen have hitherto been treated by British 
critics ; he is conscious, too, that much of the contents of 
his papers can be interesting only in the eyes of American 
readers. It was not his intention, tlierefore, to have them 
reprinted in this country. He has, however, observed 
several of them from time to time inserted in periodical 
works of merit, and has understood that it was probable 
they would be published in a collective form. He has 
been induced, therefore, to revise and bring them forward 
himself, that they may at least come correctly before the 
public. Should they be deemed of sufficient importance 
to attract the attention of critics, he solicits for them that 
courtesy and candor which a stranger has some right to 
claim who presents himself at the threshold of a hospitable 
nation. 

February, 1820. 



CONTENTS. 



Paoe. 

Introductory Note, 5 

Advertisement to the First American Edition, 7 

Advertisement to the First English Edition, 8 

Th e Author's Account of Himself, 11 

The Voyage, 14 

Eoscoe, 20 

The Wife, 27 

Eip Van Winkle, 35 

English Writers on America, 51 

Rural Life in England, 60 

The Broken Heart, 67 

The Art of Book-Making, 73 

A Royal Poet, 80 

The Country Church, 93 

The Widow and Her Son, 98 

The Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap, 105 

The Mutability of Literature, 116 

Rural Funerals, 126 

The Inn Kitchen, 137 

The Spectre Bridegroom, 139 

Westminster Abbey, 154 



10 CONTENTS. 

Christmas, 165 

The Stage-Coach, 171 

Christmas Eve, 178 

Christmas Day, 189 

Christmas Diuner, 203 

Little Britain, 216 

Stratford-on-Avon, - 230 

Traits of Indian Character, 247 

Philip of Pokanoket, 258 

John Bull, 274 

The Pride of the Village, 285 

The Angler, 294 

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, ^. . 303 

Postscript, 333 

L'Envoy, 335 



THE SKETCH-BOOK 

OF 

GEOFFREY CRAYON GENT. 



" I have no wife nor cliildren, good or bad, to provide for. A 
mere spectator of other men's fortunes and adventures, and how they 
play their parts ; which, methinks, are diversely presented unto me, 
as from a common theatre or scene." — Btjkton. 



THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 

I am of this mind with Homer, that as the snaile that crept out of 
her shel was turned eftsoones into a toad, and thereby was forced to 
make a stoole to sit on; so the traveller that stragleth from his owne 
country is in a short time transformed into so monstrous a shape, 
that he is faine to alter his mansion with his manners, and to live 
where he can, not where he would. — Lyly's Euphnes. 

I WAS always fond of visiting new scenes and observing 
strange characters and manners. Even when a mere child 
I began my travels, and made many tours of discovery into 
foreign parts and unknown regions of my native city, to the 
frequent alarm of my parents, and the emolument of the 
town crier. As I grew into boyhood, I extended the range 
of my observations. My holiday afternoons were spent 
in rambles about the surrounding country. I made 
myself familiar with all its places famous in history or 
fable. I knew every spot where a murder or robbery had 
been committed, or a ghost seen. I visited the neighbor- 
ing villages, and added greatly to my stock of knowledge, 
by noting their habits and customs, and conversing with 
their savages and great men. I even journeyed one long 
summer's day to the summit of the most distant hill, from 
whence I stretched my eye over many a mile of terra in- 
cognita, and was astonished to find how vast a globe I in- 
habited. 



12 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

This rambling propensity strengthened with my years. 
Books of voyages and travels became my passion, and in 
devouring their contents, I neglected the regular exercises 
of the school. How wistfully would I wander about the pier 
heads in fine weather, and watch the parting ships, bound 
to distant climes — with what longing eyes would I gaze 
after their lessening sails, and waft myself in imagination 
to the ends of the earth! 

Farther reading and thinking, though they brought this 
vague inclination into more reasonable bounds, only served 
to make it more decided. I visited various parts of my 
own country ; and had I been merely influenced by a love 
of fine scenery, I should have felt little desire to seek else- 
where its gratification: for on no country had the charms 
of nature been more prodigally lavished. Her mighty 
lak;es, like oceans of liquid silver; her mountains, with their 
bright aerial tints; her valleys, teeming with wild fertil- 
ity; her tremendous cataracts, thundering in theii' soli- 
tudes; her boundless plains, waving with spontaneous ver- 
dure; her broad deep rivers, rolling in solemn silence to the 
ocean; her trackless forests, where vegetation puts forth 
all its magnificence; her skies, kindling with the magic of 
summer clouds and glorious sunshine: — no, never need an 
American look beyond his own country for the sublime 
and beautiful of natural scenery. 

But Europe held forth all the charms of storied and 
poetical association. There were to be seen the m.aster- 
pieces of art, the refinements of highly cultivated society, 
the quaint peculiarities of ancient and local custom. My 
native country was full of youthful promise; Europe Avas 
rich in the accumulated treasures of age. Her very ruins 
told the history of times gone by, and every mouldering 
stone was a chronicle. I longed to wander over the scenes 
of renowned achievement — to tread, as it were, in the foot- 
steps of antiquity — to loiter about the ruined castle — to 
meditate on the falling tower — to escape, in short, from 
the commonplace realities of the present, and lose myself 
among the shadowy grandeurs of the past. 

T had, besides all this, an earnest desire to see the great 
men of the earth. We have, it is true, our great men in 
America: not a city but has an ample share of them. I 
have mingled among them in my time, and been almost with- 



THE A UTHOR'S ACCO UNT OF HIMSELF. 13 

ered by the shade into which they cast me; for there is noth- 
ing so baleful to a small man as the shade of a great one, 
particularly the great man of a city. But I was anxious to 
see the great men of Europe; for I had read in the works 
of various philosophers, that all animals degenerated in 
America, and man among the number. A great man of 
Europe, thought I, must therefore be as superior to a great 
man of America, as a peak of the Alps to a highland of the 
Hudson; and in this idea I was confirmed, by observing the 
comparative importance and swelling magnitude of many 
English travellers among us, who, I was assured, were very 
little people in their own country. I will visit this land of 
wonders, thought I, and see the gigantic race from which 
I am degenerated. 

It has been either my good or evil lot to have my roving 
passion gratified. I have wandered through different coun- 
tries and witnessed many of the shifting scenes of life. I 
cannot say that I have studied them with the eye of a philoso- 
pher, but rather with the same sauntering gaze with which 
humble lovers of the picturesque stroll from the window of 
one pi'int-shop to another; caught sometimes by the deline- 
ations of beauty, sometimes by the distortions of caricature, 
and sometimes by the loveliness of landscape. As it is the 
fashion for modern tourists to travel pencil in hand, and 
bring home their portfolios filled with sketches, I am dis- 
posed to get up a few for the entertainment of my friends. 
When, however, I look over the hints and memorandums I 
have taken down for the purpose, my heart almost fails me, 
at finding how my idle humor has led me aside from the 
great object studied by every regular traveller who would 
make a book. 1 fear I shall give equal disappointment with 
an unlucky landscape-painter, who had travelled on the con- 
tinent, but following the bent of his vagrant inclination, 
had sketched in nooks, and corners, and by-places. His 
sketch-book was accordingly crowded with cottages, and 
landscapes, and obscure ruins; but he had neglected to paint 
St. Peter's, or the Coliseum; the cascade of Terni, or the 
bay of Naples; and had not a single glacier or volcano in 
his whole collection. 



14 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



\ THE VOYAGE. 

Ships, ships, I will descrie 70U 

Amidst the main, 
I will come and try you, 
What you are protecting, 
And projecting, 

What's your end and aim. 
One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, 
Another stays to keep his country from invading, 
A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading. 
Hallo! my fancie, whither wilt thou go? 

Old Poem. 

To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage^he has 
to make is an excellent preparative. The temporary ab- 
sence of wordly scenes and employments produces a state 
of mind peculiarly fitted to receive new and vivid impres- 
sions. The vast space of waters that separates the hemi- 
spheres is like a blank page in existence. There is no 
gradual transition by which, as in Europe, the features 
and popvilation of one country blend almost imperceptibly 
with those of another. From the moment you lose sight 
of the land you have left, all is vacancy, until you step on 
the opposite shore, and are launched at once into the bustle 
and novelties of another world. 

In travelling by land there is a continuity of scene, and 
a connected succession of persons and incidents, that carry 
on the story of life, and lessen the effect of absence and 
separation. We drag, it is true, ''a lengthening chain" 
at each remove of our pilgrimage; but the chain is un- 
broken; we can trace it back link by link; and we feel 
that the last of them still grapples us to home. But a 
wide sea voyage severs us at once. It makes us conscious 
of being cast loose from the secure anchorage of settled 
life, and sent adrift upon a doubtful world. It interposes 
a gulf, not merely imaginary, but real, between us and our 
homes — a gulf, subject to tempest, and fear, and uncer- 
tainty, that makes distance palpable, and return precarious. 



THE VOYAGE. 15 

Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the 
last blue line of my native land fade away like a cloud in 
the horizon, it seemed as if I had closed one volume of the 
world and its concerns, and had time for meditation, be- 
fore I opened another. That land, too, now vanishing 
from my view, which contained all that was most dear to 
me in life; what vicissitudes might occur in it — what 
changes might take place in me before I should visit it 
again! Who can tell, when he sets forth to wander, 
winther he may be driven by the uncertain currents of ex- 
istence; or when he may return; or whether it may be 
ever his lot to revisit the scenes of his childhood? 

I said, that at sea all is vacancy; I should correct the ex- 
pression. To one given to day dreaming, and fond of 
losing himself in reveries, a sea voyage is full of subjects 
for meditation; but then they are the wonders of the deep 
and of the air, and rather tend to abstract the mind from 
worldly themes. I delighted to loll over the quarter-rail- 
ing or climb to the main-top, of a calm day, and muse for 
hours together on the tranquil bosom of a summer's sea; — 
to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds Just peering above 
the horizon; fancy them some fairy realms, and people 
them with a creation of my own; — to watch the gentle un- 
dulating billows, rolling their silver volumes, as if to die 
away on those happy shores. 

There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and 
awe with which I looked down, from my giddy height, on 
the monsters of the deep at their uncouth gambols: shoals 
of porpoises tumbling about the bow of the ship; the 
grampus, slowly heaving his huge form above the surface; 
or the ravenous shark, darting, like a spectre, through the 
blue waters. My imagination would conjure up all that I 
had heard or read of the watery world beneath me: of the 
finny herds that roam its fathomless valleys; of the shape- 
less monsters that lurk among the very foundations of the 
earth, and of those wild phantasms that swell the tales of 
fishermen and sailors. 

Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the 
ocean, would be another theme of idle speculation. How 
interesting this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin 
the great mass of existence ! What a glorious monument 
of human invention ; that has thus triumphed over wind 



16 THE SKETCn-BOOK. 

and wave ; has brought the ends of the world into com- 
munion ; has established an interchange of blessings, pour- 
ing into tiie sterile regions of the nortli all the luxuries of 
the south ; has diffused the light of knowledge, and the 
charities of cultivated life ; and has tlius bound together 
those scattered portions of the human race, between which 
nature seemed to have thrown an insurmountable barrier. 

We one day described some shapeless object drifting at a 
distance. At sea, everything that breaks the monotony of 
the surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved to 
be the nuist of a ship that must have been com})letely 
wrecked ; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs, by 
which some of the crew had fastened themselves to this 
spar, to prevent their being washed off by the waves. 
There was no trace by which the name of the ship could be 
ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted about for 
numy months; clusters of shell-lish had fastened about it, 
and long sea- weeds flaunted at its sides, liut where, 
thought I, is the crew ? Their struggle has long been 
over — they have gone down amidst the roar of the tempest 
— their bones lie whitening among the caverns of the deep. 
Silence, oblivion, like the waves, have closed over them, 
and no one can tell the story of their end. What sighs 
have been wafted after that ship ; what prayers offered up 
at the deserted fireside of home ! How often has the mis- 
tress, the wife, the mother, pored over the daily news, 
news, to catch some ctiaual intelligence of this rover of the 
deep ! IIow has expectation darkened into anxiety — 
anxiety into dread — and dread into despair! Alas! not 
one memento shall ever return for love to cherish. All 
that shall ever be known, is that she sailed from her port, 
''and was never heard of more!" 

The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many dis- 
mal anecdotes. This was particularly the case in tlie even« 
ing, when the weather, which had hitherto been fair, began 
to look wild and threatening, and gave indications of one 
of those sudden storms that will sometimes break in upon 
the serenity of a summer voyage. As we sat round the 
dull light of a lamp, in the cabin, that made the gloom 
more ghastly, every one had his tale of shipwreck and dis- 
aster. I was particularly struck with a short one related 
by the captain ; 



THE VOYAGE. 17 

" As I was once sailing," said he, '' in a fine, stout ship, 
across the banks of Newl'oundhmd, one of those heavy fogs 
that prevail in those parts rendered it impossible for us to 
see far ahead, even in the daytime ; but at night the 
weather was so thick that we could not distinguish any 
object at twice the length of the ship. I kept lights at the 
mast-liead, and a constant watch forward to look out for 
fisliing smacks, which are accustomed to lie at anchor on 
the banks. The wind was blowing a smuoking breeze, and 
we were going at a great rate through the water. Suddenly 
the watch guve tiie alarm of ' a sail a-head ! ' — it was 
scarcely uttered before we were upon her, Slie was a small 
schooner, at anchor, with a broadside toward us. The 
crew were all asleep, and had neglected to hoist a light. 
We struck her just amid-ships. The force, the size, the 
weight of our vesael, bore her down below the waves ; we 
passed over lier and were hurried on our course. As the 
crashing wreck was sinking beneath us, I had a glimpse of 
two or three half-naked wi'otches, rushing from her cabin ; 
they just started from their beds to be swallowed siu'ieking 
by the waves. I heard their drowning cry mingling with 
the wind. The blast that bore it to our ears, swept us all 
out of all farther hearing. I shall never forget that cry I It 
was some time before we could put the ship about, she was 
under such headway. We returned as iiearly as we could 
guess, to the place where the snuick had anchored. We 
cruised about for several hours in the dense fog. We fired 
signal-guns, and listened if we might hear the lialloo of 
any survivors ; but all was silent — we never saw or heard 
anything of them inore." 

I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my 
fine fancies. The storm increased with the night. The 
sea was lashed into tremendous confusion. There was a 
fearful, sullen sound of rushing waves and broken surges. 
Deep called unto deep. At times the black volume of 
clouds overhead seemed rent asunder by flashes of light- 
ning that quivered along the foaming billows, and made 
the succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The thunders 
bellowed over the wild waste of waters, and were echoed 
and prolonged by the mountain waves. As I saw the ship 
staggering and plunging among tliese roaring caverns, it 
seemed miraculous tliat she regained her balance, or pre- 



18 THE SKETCH-BOOK, 

served her buoyancy. Her yards would dip iuto the water; 
her bow was ahnost buried beneath the waves. Sometimes 
an impending surge appeared ready to overwlielm her, and 
nothing but a dexterous movement of the lielm preserved 
her from tlie shock. 

When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still fol- 
lowed me. The whistling of the wind through the rigging 
sounded like funereal wailings. The creaking of the 
masts; the straining and groaning of bulk-heads, us the 
ship labored in the weltering sea, were frightful. As I 
heard the waves rushing along the side of the ship, and 
roaring in my very ear, it seemed as if Death were raging 
round this floating prison, seeking for his prey: the mere 
starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, miglit give him 
entrance. 

A tine day, however, with a trarupiil sea and favoring 
breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It 
is impossible to resist the gladdening influence^'of fine 
weather and fair wind at sea. When the ship is decked 
out in all her canvas, every sail swelled, and careering 
gayly over the curling waves, how lofty, how gallant, she 
appears — how she seems to lord it over the deep ! I might 
fill a volume with the reveries of a sea voyage; for with 
me it is almost a continual reverie — but it is time to get to 
shore. 

It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of 
*'land!" was given from the nuist-head. None but those 
who have experienced it can form an idea of the delicious 
throng of sensations which rush into an American's bosom 
when he first comes in sight of Europe. There is a volume 
of associations with the very name. It is the land of 
promise, teeming with everything of which his childhood 
has heard, or on which his studious years have pondered. 

From that time, until the moment of arrival, it was all 
feverish excitement. The ships of war, that prowled like 
guardian giants along the coast ; the headlands of Ireland, 
stretching out into the channel ; the Welsh mountains tow- 
ering into the clouds ! all were objects of intense interest. 
As we sailed up the Mersey, I reconnoitred the shores with 
a telescope. My eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, 
with their trim shrubberies and green grass-plots. I saw 
the mouldering ruin of an abbey overrun with ivy, and the 



THE VOYAGE. 19 

taper spire of a village church rising from the brow ol" a 
neighboring hill — all were cliaracterisLic of England. 

The tide and wind were so favorable, that the ship was 
enabled to come at once to the pier. It was thronged with 
people ; some idle lookers-oji, others eager expectants of 
friends or relations. 1 could distinguish the merchant to 
Avhom the ship was consigned. I knew hini by his calcu- 
lating brow and restless air. Ilis hands were thrust into 
his pockets ; he was whistling thoughtfully, and walking 
to and fro, a small space having been accorded him by the 
crowd, in deference to his temj)orary importance, 'riu'iv 
were repeated cheerings and salutations interchanged be- 
tween the shore and tlie sliij), as fi-i(^nds h:i.p[)encd to 
recognize each other. I particularly noticed one young 
Avoman of humble dress, but intei'esting d<}meanor. She 
was leaning forward from among tlie crowd ; her eye hur- 
ried over the ship as it neared the shore, to catch sonus 
wished-for countenance. She seemed disappointed and 
agitated ; when I heard a faint voice call lier name. — It 
was from a poor sailor who had been ill all the voyage, 
and had excited the sympathy of every one on board. 
When the weather was fine, his messmates had spread a 
mattress for him on d(!ck in the shade, but of late his 
illness had so increased that ho had taken to his hammock, 
and only breathed a wish that he might see his wife before 
he died, lie had been hcl{)ed on deck as we came up the 
river, and was now leaning against the shrouds, with a 
countenance so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, that it was no 
wonder even the eye of affection did not recognize him. 
But at the sound of his voice, her eye darted on his 
features : it read, at once, a whole volume of sorrow ; she 
clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, and stood wring- 
in;;- them in silent agony. 

AH now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of ac- 
quaintances — the greetings of friends — the consultation of 
men of business. I alone was solitary and idle. I had no 
friend to meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped upon 
the land of my forefathers — but felt that 1 was a stranger 
in the land. 



20 , THE aKETCE-BOOK.\ 



ROSCOE. 

In the service of mankind to be 

A guardian god below; still to employ 
The mind's brave ardor in beroic aims, 
Such as may raise us o'er tbe grovelling herd. 
And make us shine forever — that is life. 

Thomson. 

Oj>n5 of the first places to wliich a stranger is taken m 
Liverpool, is the Athenaeum. It is established on a liberal 
and judicious plan; it contains a good library, and spacious 
reading-room, and is the great literary resort of the place. 
Go there at what hour you may, you are sure^to find it 
filled with grave-looking personages, deeply absorbed in 
the study of newspapers. 

As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, ni}^ at- 
tention was attracted to a person just entering the room. 
He was advanced in life, tall, and of a form that might 
once have been commanding, but it was a little bowed by 
time — perhaps by care. He had a noble Roman style of 
countenance; a head that would have pleased a painter; 
and though some slight furrows on his brow showed that 
wasting thought had been busy there, yet his eye still 
beamed with the fire of a poetic soul. There was some- 
thing in his whole appearance that indicated a being of a 
different order from the bustling race around him. 

I inquired his name, and was informed tPiat it was Ros- 
COE. I drew back with an involuntary feeling of venera- 
tion. This, then, was an author of celebrity; this was one 
of those men whose voices have gone forth to the ends of 
the earth; with whose minds I have communed even in 
the solitudes of America. Accustomed, as we are in our 
country, to know European writers only by their works, 
we cannot conceive of them, as of other men, engrossed by 
trial or sordid pursuits, and jostling with the crowds of 
common minds in the dusty patlis of life. They pass be- 
fore our imaginations like superior beings, radiant with 



MOSCOB. 21 

the emanations of their own genius, and surrounded by a 
halo of literai-y glory. 

To tind, therefore, the elegant historian of the Medici 
mingling" among the busy sous of traffic, at first shocked 
my poetical ideas; but it is from the very circumstances 
and situation in which he has been placed, that Mr. Roscoe 
derives his highest claims to admiration. It is interesting 
to notice how some minds seem almost to create themselves; 
springing up under every disadvantage, and working their 
solitary but irresistible way through a thousand obstacles. 
iNature seems to delight in disappointing the assiduities of 
art, with which it would rear legitimate dulness to maturity; 
and to glory in the vigor and luxuriance of her chance pro- 
ductions. She scatters the seeds of genius to the winds, 
and though some may perish among the stony places of the 
world, and some be choked by the thorns and brambles of 
early adversity, yet others will now and then strike root 
even in the clefts of the rock, struggle bravely up into sun- 
shine, and spread over their sterile birth-place all the beau- 
ties of vegetation. 

Such has been the case with Mr. Roscoe. Born in a place 
apparently ungenial to the growth of literary talent; in the 
very market-place of trade; without fortune, family connec- 
tions, or patronage; self-prompted, self-sustained, and almost 
self-taught, he lias conquered every obstacle, achieved his 
way to eminence, and having become one of the ornaments 
of the nation, has turned the whole force of his talents and 
influence to advance and embellish his native town. 

Indeed, it is this last trait in his character which has 
given him the greatest interest in my eyes, and induced me 
particularly to point him out to my countrymen. Eminent 
as are his litei'ary merits, he is but one among the many dis- 
tinguished authors of this intellectual nation. They, how- 
ever, in general, live but for their own fame, or their own 
jileasures. Their private history presents no lesson to the 
world, or, perhaps, a humiliating one of human frailty and 
inconsistency. At best, they are prone to steal away from 
the bustle and commonplace of busy existence; to indulge 
in the selfishness of lettered ease; and to revel in scenes 
of mental, but exclusive enjoyment. 

Mr. Roscoe, on the contrary, has claimed none of the ac- 
corded privileges of talent. He has shut himself up in no 



22 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

garden of thought, iiorclysium of fancy; but has gone forth 
into the highways and thovonghfarcs of life, he lias planted 
bowers by the wayside, for the refreshment of the pilgrim 
and the sojourner, and has opened pure fountains, where the 
laboring man may turn aside fi'om the dust and heat of the 
day, and drink of the living streams of knowledge. There 
is a "daily beauty in his life/' on which mankind may 
meditate, and grow better. It exhibits no lofty and almost 
useless, because inimitable, example of excellence; but pre- 
sents a picture of active, yet simple and imitable virtues, 
Avhich are within every num's reach, but which, unfortu- 
nately, are not exercised by many, or this world would be 
a paradise. 

But his private life is jieculiarly worthy the attention of 
the citizens of our young and busy country, where literature 
and the elegant arts must grow up side by side witb the 
coarser plants of daily lu^cessity; and must depend for their 
culture, not on the exclusive devotion of time and:'weaUh; 
nor the quickening rays of titled patronage; but on hours 
and seasons snatched from the pursuit of worldly interests, 
by intelligent aiul public-spirited individuals. 

lie has shown how much may be done for a place in 
hours of leisure by one master spirit, and how completely 
it can give its own impress to surrounding objects. Like 
his own Lorenzo De Medici, on whom he seems to have 
iixed his eye, as on a pure model of antiquity, he has inter- 
woven the history of his life with the history of his native 
town, and has made tbe foundations of its fame the monu- 
ments of his virtues. Wherever you go, in Liverpool, you 
perceive traces of his footsteps in all that is elegant and lib- 
eral, lie found the tide of wealth flowing merely in the 
channels of traffic; he has diverted from it invigorating 
rills to refresh the gardens of literature. By his own ex- 
ample and constant exertions, he has eifected that union of 
commerce and the intellectual pursuits, so eloquently 
recommended in one of his latest writings; * and has i)rac- 
tically proved how beautifully they uuiy l)e brought to Jiar- 
mnnize, and to benefit each other. The noble institutions 
for literary and scientific purposes, which reflect such 
credit on Liverpool and ;i.re giving such an impulse to the 
public mind, have mostly been originated, and liave all 

* Addro>5s on tbe opeiiiiiK of the Liverpool histitiition 



R08C0E. 23 

been effectively "promoted, by Mr. Roscoe; and wben wo 
consider the rapidly increasing opulence and magnitude of 
that town, which promises to vie in commercial importance 
with the metropolis, it will be perceived that in awakening 
an ambition of mental improvement among its inhabitants, 
he has effected a great benefit to the cause of British liter- 
ature. 

In America, we know Mr. Roscoe only as the author — in 
Liverpool, he is spoken of as the banker; and I was told of 
his having been unfortunate in business. I could not pity 
him, as I heard some rich men do. I considered him far 
above the reach of my pity. Those who live only for the 
world, and in the world, may be cast down by the frowns 
of adversity; but a man like Roscoe is not to be overcome 
by the reverses of fortune. They do but drive hitn in upon 
the resources of his own mind; to the superior society of 
his own thoughts; which the best of men are apt sometimes 
to neglect, and to roam abroad in search of less worthy 
associates. He is independent of the world around him. 
He lives with antiquity, and with posterity: with antiquity, 
in the sweet communion of studious retirement; and with 
posterity, in the generous aspirings after future renown. 
The solitude of such a mind is its state of highest enjoy- 
ment. It is then visited by those elevated meditations 
which are the proper ailment of noble souls, and are, like 
manna, sent from heaven, in the wilderness of this world. 

While my feelings were yet alive on the subject, it was 
my fortune to light on farther traces of Mr. Roscoe. I was 
riding out with a gentleman, to view the environs of Liver- 
pool, when he turned off, through a gate, into some orna- 
mented grounds. After riding a short distance, we came 
to a spacious mansion of freestone, built in the Grecian 
style. It was not in the purest taste, yet it had an air of 
elegance, and the situation was delightful. A fine lawn 
sloped away from it, studded with clumps of trees, so dis- 
posed as to break a soft fertile country into a variety of 
landscapes. The Mersey was seen winding a broad quiet 
sheet of water through an expanse of green meadow land; 
while the Welsh mountains, blending with clouds, and 
melting into distance, bordered the horizon. 

This was Roscoe's favorite residence during the days of 
his prosperity. It had been the seat of elegant hospitality 



24 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

and literary refinement. The house was now silent and de- 
serted. I saw the windows of tlie study, which looked out 
upon the soft scenery I have mentioned. The windows were 
closed — the library was gone. Two or thi'ee ill-favored be- 
ings were loitering about the place, whom n)y fancy pic- 
tured into retainers of the law. It was like visiting some 
classic fountain that had once welled its pure waters in a 
sacred shade, but finding it dry and dusty, with the lizard 
and the toad brooding over the shattered marbles. 

I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe's library, which 
had consisted of scarce and foreign books, from many of 
which he had drawn the materials for his Italian histories. 
It had passed under the hammer of the auctioneer, and was 
dispersed about the country. 

The good people of the vicinity thronged like wreckers 
to get some part of the noble vessel that had been driven 
on shore. Did such a scene admit of ludicrous associa- 
tions, we might imagine something whimsical Jn this 
strange irruption into the regions of learning. Pigmies 
rummaging the armory of a giant, and contending for the 
possession of weapons whicli they could not Avield. We 
might picture to ourselves some knot of speculators, debat- 
ing with calculating brow over the quaint binding and 
illuminated margin of an obsolete author; or the air of 
intense, but baffled sagacity, with which some successful 
purchaser attempted to dive into the black-letter bargain 
he had secured. 

It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. Eoscoe's 
misfortunes, and one which cannot fail to interest the stu- 
dious mind, that the parting with his books seems to have 
touched upon his tenderest feelings, and to have been the 
only circumstance that could provoke the notice of his 
muse. The scholar only knows how dear these silent, yet 
eloquent, companions of pure thoughts and innocent hours 
become in the season of adversity. When all that is worldly 
turns to dross around us, these only retain their steady 
value. When friends grow cold, and the converse of inti- 
mates languishes into vapid civility and commonplace, 
these only continue the unaltered countenance of happier 
days, and cheer us with that true friendship which never 
deceived hope, nor deserted sorrow. 

I do not wish to censure; but> surely, if the people of 



ROSCOE. 25 

Liverpool had been properly sensible of what was due to 
Mr. Kosooe and to themselves, his library would never have 
been sold. Good worldly reasons may, doubtless, be given 
for the circumstance, wiiich it would be difficult to combat 
with others that might stiem merely fanciful; but it cer- 
tainly appears to me such an opportunity as seldom occurs, 
of cheering a noble ndnd struggling under misfortunes by 
one of the most delicate, but most expressive tokens of 
public sympathy. Jt is dillicult, however, to estimate a 
uuin of genius properly who is daily before our eyes. He 
becomes mingled and confounded with other men. Ilis 
great qualities Jose their novelty, and we become too fannl- 
iar with the common materials which form the basis even 
of the loftiest character. Some of Mr. lioscoe's townsmen 
may regard him merely as a man of business; others as a 
politician; all find him engaged like themselves in ordi- 
]iary occupations, and surpassed, perhaps, by themselves 
on some points of worldly wisdom. Even that amiable 
and unostentatious simplicity of character, which gives 
the name less grace to real excellence, may cause him to be 
uiulei'valued by some coarse minds, who do not know that 
true worth is always void of glare and pretension. But the 
man of letters who speaks of Liverpool, speaks of it as the 
residence of Iloscoe, — The intelligent traveller who visits it, 
inquires where Eoscoe is to be seen. — lie is the literary 
landmark of the place, indicating its existence to the dis- 
tant scholar. — lie is like J'ompey's column at Alexandria, 
towering alone in classic dignity. 

The following sonnet, addressed by Jlr. lioscoe to his 
books, on parting with them, is alluded to in the preceding 
article. If anything can add effect to the pure feeling and 
elevated thought here displayed, it is the conviction, that 
the whole is no effusion of fancy, but a faithful tr^ns^.ript 
from the writers heart: 



TO MY BOOKS. 

As one, who, destined from his friends to part, 
Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile 
To shaix; their converse, and enjoy their smile, 

And lempeiB, as he may, affection's dart; 



26 TEE SKETCHBOOK. 

Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, 

Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile 
My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, 

I now resign you; nor with fainting heart; 



For pass a few short years, or days, or hours. 

And happier seasons may their dawn unfold. 
And all your sacred fellowship restore; 

When freed from earth, unlimited its powers, 

Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, 
And kindred spirits meet to part no more. 



TBE WIFE. 27 



THE WIFE. 

The treasures of the deep are not so precious 
As are the concealed comforts of a man 
Lock'd up in woman's love. I scent the air 
Of blessings, when I come but near the house. 
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth — 
The violet bed's not sweeter ! 

MiDDLETON. 

I HAVE often had occtisiou to remark the fortitude with 
which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of 
fortune. Those disasters which break down the spirit of a 
man, and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all 
the energies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity 
and elevation to their character, that at times it approaches 
to sublimity. Nothing can be, more touching, than to 
behold a soft and tender female, who had been all weak- 
ness and dependence, and alive to every trivial roughness, 
while threading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly 
rising in mental force to be the comforter and supporter of 
her husband under misfortune, and abiding, with un- 
shrinking firmness, the bitterest blasts of adversity. 

As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage 
about the oak, and been Hfted by it into sunshine, will, 
when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling 
round it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shat- 
tered boughs ; so is it beautifully ordered by Providence, 
that woman, who is the mere dependant and ornament of 
man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace 
when smitten with sudden calamity ; winding herself into 
the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the^ 
drooping head, and binding uj) the broken heart. 

I was once congratulating a friend, Avho had around him 
a blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection. 
*'I can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, 
"than to have a wife and children. If you are prosperous, 
there they are to share jour jprosperitj j if otherwise, there 



Sb THE SKETCU-BOOK. 

they are to comfort you." And, iiuiecd, 1 have observed 
th.'i.t. ;i innrriod man rallirii:^ into niisrortnne, is more a[>i io 
n^trievo liia situation in I ho world than a single one; partly, 
htH-aiise ho is more stiinuhited to exertion by the nreessities 
of tlio helpless and beloved beings who depend upon liiin 
for subsistenee ; but ebietly, because his spirits a.n! soothed 
and relieved by domestic (indoarinents, and his self-respect 
ke[)t alive by llnding, that thouy;h all abroad is darknest.' 
and humiliation, yet there is still a little world of love at 
home, of which he is the monarch. Whereas, a single 
nuiJi is apt to run to waste and self-negU'ct ; to fancy him 
selt lonely and abandoncHl, aiul his heart to fall to ruin, 
like some deserted mansion, for want of an inhabitant. 

These o])serviitions call to mind a little domestic story, 
of which I was once :i. witness. My intimate friend, Leslie, 
had )nai'ri(Hl a beautiful ami accomplished girl, who had 
been brought up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, 
it is true, no foilune. but that, of my friend was atnple ; 
and he delighted in the antit'ipation of indulging her in 
every elegant pursuit, and administering to those delicate 
tastes and fancies that s[)read a kind of witchery about the 
sex. — " Her life," said he, "shall be like a fairy tale." 

The very dilterenco in their characters produced a har- 
monious combination ; he was of a romantic, and somewhat 
serious cast; she was all life and gladness. 1 have often 
noticed the mute rapture with which he would ga/iO njton 
luM- in coin}>a-ny, of which her sjirightly ]H)wers made her 
the delight; and how, in the midst of applause, her eyes 
would still turn to him, as if there alone she sought favor 
arul acceptance. When leaning on his arm, her slendia- 
form (u)ntrastcd lim>ly with his tall, manly person. The 
fond contiding air with which she looked up to him seemed 
to call forth a flush of triumphant pride and chei'ishing 
tenderness, as if he doated on his hn'cly burden for its 
very heli)lessness. ISlever did a couple set forward on the 
tlowery path of early and well-suited marriage with a fairer 
prospect of felicity. 

It was the misfortum* of my friend, however, to have 
iMu barked his ]n-operty in large speculations; and he had 
not been married many montlis, wIumi, by a succession of 
suddt'u disasters il^ was tiwt^jtt from him, and he found him- 
self reduced to almost penury. For u time he kept his 



THE WIFE. 20 

situation to himself, and went about with a haggard coun- 
tenance, and a breaking heart. His life was but a pro- 
tracted agony; and what rendered it more insupportable 
was the necessity of keeping up a smile in the presence of 
his wife; for ho could not bring himself to overwhelm her 
with the news. She saw, however, with the quick eyes of 
aifection, that all was not Avell with him. She marked his 
altered look and stilled sighs, and was not to be deceivod 
by his sickly and vapid attempts at cheerfulness. She 
tasked all her spriglitly powers and tender blandishments 
to win him back to happiness; but she only drove the 
arrow deeper into iiis soul. 'J'he more he saw cause to love 
lier, the more torturing was the thought that he was soon 
to make her wretched. A little while, thought he. and 
the smile will vanish from tliat cheek — the song will die 
away from those lips — the lustre of those eyes will be 
quenched with sorrow — and the happy heart which now 
beats lightly in that bosom, will be weighed down, like 
mine, by the cares and miseries of the world. 

At length he came to mo one day, and related his whole 
situation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I \\\v\. 
heard him through, J inquired, " Does your wife know all 
this?" At the question he burst into an agony of tears. 
''For God's sake!" cried he, ''if you have any pity on me, 
don't mention my wife; it is the thought of her that drives 
me almost to madness!" 

"And why not?" said I. " She must know it sooner or 
later: you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelli- 
gence may break upon her in a more startling manner than 
if imparted by yourself; for the accents of those we love 
soften the harshest tidings. Besides, you are depriving 
yourself of the comforts of her sympathy; and not merfly 
that, but also endangering the only bond that can keep 
hearts together — an unreserved community of thought hjkI 
feeling. She will soon perceive that something is secretly 
preying upon your mind; and true love will not brook re- 
serve: it feels undervalued and outraged, when even the 
sorrows of those it loves are concealed from it." 

" Oh, but my friend! to think what a blow I am to give 
to all her future pi'ospects — how I am to strike her very 
soul to the earth, by telling her that her husband is a beg- 
gar! — that she is to forego all the elegancies of life — all the 



80 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

pleasures of society — to shrink with me into indigence and 
obscurity! To tell her that I liave dragged her down from 
the sphere in whicii she might have continued to move in 
(U)nstant brightness — the light of every eye — the admira.' 
tion of every heart! — How can slie bear poverty? IShe has 
been brougiit up in all the relinements of opulence. How 
can she bear neglect? She has been tlie idol of society. 
Oil, it will break her lieart — it will bi'eak her heart!" 

I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow; 
for sorrow relieves itself by words. When liis paroxysm 
liad subsided, and he had rela[)sed into moody silence, I 
rcvsumed the subject gently, and urged him to break his 
situation :it once to his wife. He shook his head moiirn- 
fnlly, but positively. 

" Hut how are you to keep it from her? It is necessary 
slu^ should know it, that you may take the steps })ro]ier to 
the alteration of your (^ircujustances. You must change 
your style of living — nay," observing a pang to pass^icross 
his countenance, " don't let that aillict you. I am sure 
you have never placed your hap])iness in outward show — 
you have yet friends, warm friends, who will not think the 
worse of you for being less splendidly lodged: and surely 
it (h)es not recpiire a palace to be happy with Mary — " "I 
could bo ha[)py with her," cried he, convulsively, "in a 
hovel! — I could go down with her into }>overty and the 
dust — I could — I could — Cod bless her! — (iod bless her!" 
cried he, bursting into a trans])ort of grief and tenderness. 

** And believe nu\ my frieiul," said I, stejiping up, and 
grasping hiiu warudy by the hand, " bidieve me, she can 
be the same to you. Ay, more : it will be a source of pride 
and triumph to her — it will call forth all the latent ener- 
gies and fervent sym})athies of her nature; for she will re- 
joice to prove thai, she loves you for yourself, 'i'here is in 
every true woman's heart a spark of heaveidy (ire, which 
lies dormant in the bi-oad daylight of prosperity; but 
wliich kiiulles up, and beams and blazes in tlie dark hour 
of adversity. No man knows what the wife of nis bosom 
is — no man knows what a ministering angel she is — until 
he has gone with her through the tiery trials of this world." 

There was something in the (Mirnestness of my manner, 
and the llgurative style of my hmguage. that caught the 
excited inuisination of Leslie. 1 knew the auditor 1 hud 



THE WTFK. 81 

to deal with ; and following up the impression I had made, 
I liuished by persuading him to go home and unburden his 
sad heart to his wife. 

I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt 
some little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on 
the fortitude of one wiiose whole life has been a round of 
pleasures ? lier gay spirits might revolt at the darii, 
downward path of low huinility, suddenly pointed out be- 
fore her, and might cling to the sunny regions in which 
thciy had hitherto revelled. Besides, ruin in fashionable 
life is accotnpanied by so many galling mortifications, to 
which, in other ranks, it is a stranger.- -In shoit, I could 
not meet Leslie, the next morning, without trepidation. 
He had made the disclosure. 

"And how did she bear it ?" 

" Like an angel ! Jt seemed rather to be a relief to her 
mind, for she threw her arms round my neck, and asked if 
this was all that had lately made me unhapi)y. — But, poor 
girl," added lie, "she cannot realize the change we must 
undergo. She has no idea of poverty but in the abstract : 
she has only read of it in poetry, where it is allied to love. 
She feels as yet no privation : she suffers no loss of accus- 
tomed conveniences nor elegancies. When we come prac- 
tically to exj)erience its sordid cares, its paltry wants, its 
petty humiliations — then will be the real trial." 

" But," said I, " now that you have got over the severest 
task, that of breaking it to her, the sooner you let the 
world into the secret the better. I'he disclosure may be 
mortifying ; but then it is a single misery, and soon over ; 
whereas you otherwise suffer it, in anticipation, every hour 
in the day. It is not poverty, so much as pretence, that 
harasses a ruined man — the struggle between a proud mind 
and an empty purse — the keeping up a hollow show that 
must soon come to an end. ilave the courage to appear 
poor, and you disarm poverty of its sharpest sting." On 
this point I found fjcslie perfectly prepared. He had no 
false pride himself, and as to his wife, she was only 
anxious to conform to their altered fortunes. 

Some days afterwards, he called upon me in the fcvening. 
He had disposed of his dwelling-house, and taken a small 
cottage in the country, a few miles from town. He had 
been busied all day in sending out furniture. The new 



33 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

establisliment required few articles, and those of the 
simplest kind. All the splendid furniture of his late resi- 
dence had been sold, excepting his wife's harp. That, l^e 
said, was too closely associated with the idea of herself ; it 
belonged to the little story of their loves ; for some of the 
sweetest moments of their courtship were those when he 
leaned over that instrument, and listened to the melting 
tones of her voice. I could not but smile at this instance 
of romantic gallantry in a doating husband. 

He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had 
been all day, superintending its arrangement. My feelings 
had become strongly interested in the progress of his 
family story, and as it was a fine evening, I offered to ac- 
company him. 

He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and as we 
walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. 

''Poor Mary!" at length broke, with a sigh, fromhis lips. 

"And what of her," asked I, ''has anything happened 
to her?" /- 

"What," said he, darting an impatient glance, "is it 
nothing to be reduced to this paltry situation — to be caged 
in a miserable cottage — to be obliged to toil almost in the 
menial concerns of her wretched habitation?" 

"Has she then repineil at the change?" 

"Repined! she has been nothing but sweetness and good 
humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have 
ever known her; she has been to me all love, and tender- 
ness, and comfort!" 

"Admirable girl!" exclaimed I. "You call yourself 
poor, my friend; you never were so rich — you never knew 
the boundless treasures of excellence you possessed in that 
woman." 

"Oh! but my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage 
were over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this 
is her first day of real experience: she has been introduced 
into an humble dwelling — she has been employed all day 
in arranging its miserable equipments — she has for the 
first time known the fatigues of domestic employment — 
she has for the first time looked around her on a home 
destitute of everything elegant — almost of everything con- 
venient; and may now be sitting down, exhausted and 
spiritless, brooding over a prospect of future poverty." 



TEE WIFE. 33 

There was a degree of probability in this picture that I 

could not gainsay, so we walked on in silence. 

After turning from the main road, up a narrow lane, so 
thickly shaded by forest trees as to give it a complete air of 
seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was humble 
enougli in its appearance for the most pastoral poet; and 
yet it had a pleasing rural look. A wild vine had overrun 
one end with a profusion of foliage; a few trees threw their 
branches gracefully over it; and I observed several pots of 
flowers tastefully disposed about the door, and on the 
grass-plot in front. A small wicket-gate opened upon a 
footpath that wound through some shrubbery to the door. 
Just as we approached, we heard the sound of music — Leslie 
grasped my arm; we paused and listened. It was Mary's 
voice, singing, in a style of the most touching simplicity, 
a little air of which her husband was peculiarly fond. 

I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped for- 
ward, to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on 
the gravel-walk. A bright, beautiful face glanced out at 
the window, aud vanished — a light footstep was heard — 
and Mary came tripping forth to meet us. She was in a 
pretty rural dress of white; a few wild flowers were twisted 
in her flne hair; a fresh bloom was on her cheek; her whole 
countenance beamed with smiles — I had never seen her 
look so lovely. 

"My dear George," cried she, ''I am so glad you are 
come; I have been watching and watching for you; and 
running down the lane, and looking out for you. I've set 
out a table under a beautiful tree behind the cottage; and 
Tve been gathering some of the most delicious strawberries, 
for I know you are fond of them — and we have such ex- 
cellent cream — and everything is so sweet and still here.— 
Oh!" — said she, putting her arm within his, and looking 
u]) brightly in his face, "Oh, we shall be so happy!" 

Poor Leslie was overcome. — He caught her to his bosom 
— he folded his arms around her — he kissed her again and 
again — he could not speak, but the tears gushed into his 
eyes; and he has often assured me, that though the world 
has since gone prosperously with him, and his life has in- 
deed been a happy one, yet never has he experienced a 
moment of more exquisite felicity. 



Si THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

[The following Tale was found among the papers of the 
late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New- 
York, who was very curious in the Dutch History of the 
province and the manners of the descendants from its 
primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did 
not lie so much among books as among men ; for the 
former are lameiitably scanty on his favorite topics; 
whereas he found the old burghers, and still more, their 
wives, rich in that legendary lore, so invaluable to true 
history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a 
genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its low-roofe(] 
farm-house, under a spreading scyamore, he looked u])Oi 
it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it 
with the zeal of a bookworm. 

The result of all these researches was a history of the 
province, during the reign of the Dutch governors, which 
lie published some years since. There have been various 
opinions as to the literary character of his work, and, to 
tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should he. Its 
chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which, indeed, was a 
little questioned, on its first appearance, but has since been 
completely established ; and it is now admitted into all his- 
torical collections, as a book of unquestionable authority. 

The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of 
his work, and now, that he is dead and gone,' it cannot do 
much harm to his memory, to say, that his time might 
have been much better employed in weightier labors. He, 
however, was apt to ride his hobby his own way ; and 
though it did now and then kick up the dust a little in the 
eyes of his neighbors, and grieve the spirit of some friends 
for whom he felt the truest deference and affection, yet his 
errors and follies are remembered "more in sorrow than in 
anger,"* and it begins to be suspected, that he never in- 
tended to injure or offend. But however his memory may 
be appreciated by critics, it is still held dear among many 
folk, whose good opinion is well worth having; particu- 
larly by certain biscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to 
imprint his likeness on their new-year cakes, and have thus 
given him a chance for immortality, almost equal to the 
being stamped on a Waterloo medal, or a Queen Anne's 
fa rt] ling.] 

* Vide the excellent difioowse of G. C. Vevplanck, Esq.. before the New York 
Historioal Society. 



BIP VAN WINKLE. 35 



KIP VAN WINKLE. 

A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER. 

By Woden, God of Saxons, 

From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodnesday. 

Truth is a thing that ever I will keep 

Unto tliylke day in which I creep into 

My sepulchre — 

Cartright. 

Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson, must 
remember the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismem- 
bered branch of the great Appahichian family, and are 
seen away to the west of the river, swelling np to a noble 
height, and lording it over the surrounding country. 
Every change of season, every change of weatlier, indeed 
every hour of the day produces some change in the magical 
hues and shapes of these mountains ; and they are regarded 
by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. 
When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in 
blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear 
evening sky ; but sometimes, when the rest of the land- 
scape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors 
about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting 
sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory. 

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may 
have descried the light smoke curling up from a village, 
whose shingle roofs gleam among the trees, just where the 
blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of 
the nearer landscape. It is a little village of great an- 
tiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch 
colonists, in the early times of the province, just about 
the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuy- 
vesant (may he rest in peace I) and there were some of the 
houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, 
builfc of small yellow bricks, brought from lioUanO, having 
latticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted with 
weathercocks. 



36 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

In that s.imo village, and in one oi' these very houses 
(which to toll the prociao truth, was sadly tiuie-wovji and 
wea^tlier-beaten), there lived many yours since, while the 
country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple, 
good-natured follow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle, He 
was a descendant of the Vaji Winkles who figured so gal- 
lantly in the chivalrous days of Potor Stnyvesant. and 
accompanied him to the siege of fort Christina. He in- 
heritotl, however, but little of the martial character of his 
ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple good- 
natured man ; he w^is moreover a kind neighbor, and an 
obedient henpecked hnsl):ind. Jndced, to the hitter eir- 
cnmstanco might be owing that inoeknoss of sj)ii-it which 
gained him snch universal popularity ; for those men are 
most apt to beobseciuious and conciliating abroad, who are 
under the discipline of shrews at home. Their tempers, 
doubtless, are rendered pliant and nuilleable in the fiery 
furnace of domestic tribulation, and a curtain lecture is 
worth all the sermons in tlie world for teaching the v4i-tues 
of patience and long-suffering. A ternnigant wife may, 
therefore, \n some respects, be considered a tolerable 
blessing; and if so. Rip Van Winkle w^as thrice blessed. 

Certain it is that he was a great favorite among nil the 
good wives of the villnge. who, ns nsnal with the amiable 
sex, took his part in all fa,nHly squabbles, and never failed, 
whenever they talked tliose matters over in their evening 
gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. 
The children of the village, too, W(uild shout with joy 
whenever he approached. He assisted at their sports, 
made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot 
marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches and 
Indians. Whenever ho went dodging about the vilhige, he 
Avas surrounded by a troop of them hanging on his skirts, 
clambering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on 
him with impunity ; and not a dog would bark at liim 
throughout tlic neighborhood. 

Tlie gre;it error in Rij/s composition Avas an insuperable 
aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be 
from the want of assiduity or perseverance ; for he would 
sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a 
Tartar's lance, and lisU all day witliout a murmur, even 
though ho should not be encouraged by a single nibble. 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 37 

lie would carry a fowling-pioi;o on liis shoulder, for hours 
together, trndf^ing throuiijli woods }ind swamps, and up hill 
utid down chile, to slujot, a few squirrels or wild pigeons. 
He would never refuse to assist a neighbor even in the 
roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all eountry frolies 
for husking liuliau corn, or building stone fences. The 
women of the village, too, used to employ him to run their 
errands, and to do sueh little odd jobs as their less obliging 
husbands would not do for them ; — in a word. Kin M'as 
r(!ady to attend to anybody's business but his own ; but as 
to doing family duty, and keeping his farm in order, he 
foiuul it im[)ossible. 

In fact, he deelai'ed it was of no use to work on his farm ; 
it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the wliole 
country; everything about it went wrong, and would go 
wrong in s|)ite of him. His fenees were continually falling 
to pieces ; liis cow would either go astray, or get among 
the cabbages ; wiseds were sure to grow quicker in his fields 
than anywhere else ; the rain always made a point of setting 
in just a,s he liad some out-door work to do ; so that 
though his patrimonial estate had dwindled away under 
his nuiiiag(!ment, acre by aci'e, until tlu^re was little more 
left than a mere })ateh of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it 
was the worst conditioned farm in the neighborhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they be- 
longed to nobody. His son liip, an urchin begotten in his 
own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with the old 
clothes of his father. He was generally seen trooping like 
a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of his 
father's cast-off galligaskins, whieh he had niueh ado to 
hold up with one hand, as a line lady docs her train in bad 
weatluM'. 

Kip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mor- 
tals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world 
easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got with 
least thought or trouble, and would ratluu' starve on a 
penny than work for a pound. If Ud't to himself, he would 
nave whistled life away, in perfect contentment; but his 
wife kept continually dinning in his ears about liis idleness, 
his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing ou his 
family. 

Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly 



88 Tins SKETcm-nooK. 

goiiii;, juul (W(M'vi flint;' liti miid or did wan Hiiro to ])roduce a 
tornmt of liousolioltl oUx^iioiico. kip liad biil, oiio way of 
rcplyiufi' lo nil IocLiuoh of iho kind, und Lliat, by fio(|iient 
1180, liacl j^rowii into a liabit. lie shruirgod bis sbouldcrs, 
Hboolv bis boad, cast, \\\^ bis oyos, but; said not,binf>;. Tbis, 
bowovcr, always |>rov()l<(«l a. IVcisb volloy From bis wil'o. so 
liiat lio was fain t.o dra,\v oil" bis forces, and take to tbo out- 
side of tbo iious(> — tiio only side wbieb, in triitb, belongs 
to a benpecked Imsband. 

Ivip's sol(^ domestic; adberi>nt was liis dog Wolf, wbo \va.s 
as miieb beiipeck(Ml as bis master ; for Daino Va.n Winkle 
roga.rde(l tbem as companions in idlemvss, and even looked 
upon VV(>lf witb an evil eye, as tbo (lanso of bis master's 
going so often astray. 'I'rno it is, in all j)oints of spirit 
bolitling an bonorable dog, be was as courageous an 
animal as ever scoured tbo woods — but wbat courage can 
witbstand tbo ovor-during and all bc^setting terrors of a 
woman's tongue? Tbo moment Wolf ontoi'cd tbo bouso, 
his crost fell, bis tail drooped to tbo groutul, or curltJd be- 
tween ins legs, bo sneaked al)OUt witb a gallows air, casting 
many a sidelong gbuu^o a.t Dame Van Winkle, arui at tbo 
least llourisb of a broomstick or latlle, bo would lly to tbo 
door witb yelping pr(>cipitat.ion. 

Times grew worse and worse witb I\Mp \'nn Winkle, as 
years of malriuumy rolled on: a tart temper never mellows 
witb age, and a sbarp tongue is tbo only vA^<\ tool tbat 
grows koeiuM" witb constant use. lA)r a long wbiU' be us(hI 
to console bimself, wben driven from bome. by fre(]uenting 
a. kind of p(>r[)(>tual chd) of tbo sag(>s, pbiloso})bei's, an«l 
otber idle personagc^s of tbe village, wbicdi b(>id its sivssiona 
on a bencb before a stmUl inn. designated by a rubicund 
portrait of bis nuijesty (il(>orge tbo Tbird. Hero tbey used 
to sit iu tbe sluule of a. long lazy summer's day. talking list- 
lessly over village gossip, or tolling endless sleepy stories 
about notbing. But it would bave boiui wi)rtb any statos- 
niaii's money to bave beard tbe profound discussions wbieh 
Konu'finu^s took j)lace. wben by cbaiice an old mnvsj^apor 
foil into lb>Mr bands, from seme passing traveller. Mow 
solemnly tlu»y would list.eu to tbo conliMits. as drawled out 
by Derrick \^in Humnu'l, tbo sclmolmaster, a daj)per 
learned little »uan, wbo was not to be daunted by tbe most 
gigantic word in tbo dictionary j and bow sagely tbey 



liW VAN WTNKLE. 39 

Would (liilibdniio upon public; (ivciits Horuo months afLor 
ilu^y had Lakcsii places. 

Tlio ()[)ini(His of LliiH juuLo vvcro coiiipkiidly coiiLvoHimI by 
Ni<!b()Iart Voddor, a piUriandi of the villaj^c, and landlord 
of tlio inn, at, tho door of which ho look his 8oat from 
morning l,ill nif^lit, ju.sl, jnovin^ Hnllicicintly to avoid the 
HUM, arui koop in tho whadu of a largo troo; so that the 
noi<^hb()rH could toll tho hour by hirt niovorncnts an accur- 
ately as by a Huii-diiil. ll is triU!, he was rarely heard to 
8i)eak, but smoked his pii)o inf!cs«autly. Ilia adh(T(Mits, 
however (for every great man has his adherents), })erfectly 
understood iuin, and know how to gather his opinions. 
When anything that was n^ad or related displeased him, ho 
was observed to smoko his pipe vehemently, and to send 
forth short, rre(]iu!nt, and angry pulls; but when pleased, 
ho would inhalo the smoke slowly and trancpiilly. a,nd (unit 
it in light and placid eloiuls, and soinel,iiu(!s taking tho 
j)ip(* fi'om his mouth, atul letting tJu^ fnigrant va.])or curl 
about his noso, would gravely nod his lujad in tokiui of per- 
fect ii,|)prol)ation. 

Kroni even this stronghold tlu^ unlucky Hip was at 
lenglb routed by his tei-magant wife, who w<»uld aiuldenly 
break in upon the ti'aiKiuillity of the ass(Mnbla,g(>, and call 
tho memlxM's all l.o nought; nor vvm,s that august, [xuvsotuigo, 
Nicholas Vcihhu- himself, saenul from the darint,' tongue of 
this terrible virago, who chargcfd him outright with eiu)our- 
aging her husbaiul in hiibils of idleiu^ss. 

l*oor liip was at last reducuul almost to despair, and hisj 
only all,ernative to escape from tho labor of the farm and 
the clamor of his wife, was to tak(i gun in hand, and stroll 
away into the woods. Here he would aometinuis seat liini- 
self at the foot of a tr(>e, iind share tlu! conl,(Uil,s of his 
wallet with Wolf, with whom he sym|>athized as a, fellow- 
sulferer in perseiuition. '* I'oor Wolf." he would say, 
** thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it; but never mind, 
my l.'ui, whilst i live thou shalt newer want a, friend to 
stand by tluio!" Wolf would wag his tiiii, look wistfully in 
his uuister's face, and if dogs c^an fecil pil,y. I verily believe 
he reciprocated the sentinumt with all his heart. 

in a long ramble of tlui kind, on a line .-uitumuid day. 
Rip had nnconscionsly scniniltled to one of tlu^ highest 
parts of tho .liauUkiii mouutaius. lie was after his favor- 



40 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

itc sport of squirrel-sliooting, und the still solitudes had 
echoed mid re-echoed with \\\c. reports of liis s^nn. Piuit- 
iiig iiud fatigued, he tlirew himself, late in the afternoon, 
on a green knoll covered witli mountain herbage, that 
crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening be- 
tween tlie trees, lie could overlooi^ all the lower country 
for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance 
the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent 
but majestic course, with the reliection of a purple cloud, 
or the sail of a lagging bark, here aiul there sleeping on its 
glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue higldands. 

On the other sick', he looked down into a deep mountain 
glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom tilled with 
fragnunits fi'om tlie impeiuliug (ilitTs, and scarcely lighted 
by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some time 
Kip lay musing on this scene; evening was gradually ad- 
vaiu3ing; the mountains began to tlu'ow their long bluo 
shadows over the valleys; he saw that it would be dark 
long before he could reach the village; ami he Ueavcd a 
heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors ol 
Dame Van Winkle. 

As ho was about to descend he heard a voice from a dis' 
tance hallooing, "Kip Van Winkle! Hip Van Winkle!" 
He looked around, but could see nothing but a crow wing- 
ing its solitary flight across the mountnin. He thought 
his fancy must have deceived him, ami turned again to de- 
scend, when he heard the same cry ring througli the still 
evening air, '* Hip Van Winkle! lvi[) Van Winkle!" — at the 
same time Wolf bristled up his back, ami giving a low 
growl, skulked to his uuister's side, looking fearfully <h)wn 
into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing 
over him; he looked anxiously in the same direction, a.nd 
perceived a strange (igure slowly toiling up the rocks, and 
bending uiuler the weight of something ho carried on his 
back. He was surprised to see any human being in this 
lonely and unfrequented place, but supposing it to be some 
one of the neighborliood in need of his assistance, he 
hastened down to yield it. 

On nearer approach, he was still more surprised at the 
singularity of the stranger's appi^arance. He was a short 
6qua,re-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a griz- 
zled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion — • 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 41 

a cloth jorlfin sLnippod louml tlio waisu — several pair of 
breeches, tlie outor one of ample volume, decorated with 
rowy of buttons down the sides, and bunclies at the knees. 
He bore on liis slioulders a stout ke<,% tliat secimed full of 
liquor, and made sifiijns for Kip to ii])i)roa(;ii and assist him 
witli the load. Though ratlxn- shy and distrustful of this 
new accjuaintance, Uip conii)liod with his usual alacrity, 
and inu(ually relieving eacli other, they clainbcj-ed up a 
narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. 
As they ascended, Kip every now and then heard long roll- 
ing peals, like distant thunde)", that seeined to issue out of 
a deep ravine, or rather cleft between lofty rocks, toward 
whi(!h their rugged path conducted. He paused for an in- 
stant, but sup])osing it to be the muttering of one of those 
transient thunder showers which often take place in the 
mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the 
ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small amphitlieatre, 
surrounded by perpendicuhir ])i'ecipices, over the bi'inks of 
which, impeiuling trees shot their bi'anches so that you oidy 
iiaught glim|)ses of the a:Mire sky, and the bright evening 
cloud. During the whole time, liipaiul his compaiuon had 
labored on in silence; for though the former marvelled 
greatly what could l)e the o])jectof carrying a keg of licpior 
up this wild mountain, yet there was something strange 
and incomprehensible about the unknown, that inspii-ed 
awe, and checked familiarity. 

On entering the am])hitheatre, new objects of wonder 
presented themselves. On a level spot in the centre was a 
company of odd-looking personages playing at nine-pins. 
They were dressed in a quaint uuthuuiish fashion: some 
wore short doublets, othei's jerkins, with long knives in 
their belts, and most of them had enormous breeches, of 
similar style with that ol" the guide's. 'I'heir visages too, 
were ])eculiar: one had a large head, broad face, and small 
piggish eyes; the face of another seemed to consist entirely 
of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set 
oft" with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of 
various shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to 
be the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with i* 
weather-beaten countenance; he wore a laced doublet, 
broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat aiul feather, 
red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. 



42 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Tho whole group roiniiuled Uip of tlio tigiiros in an old 
Flemish });iiiitiiig', in the parlor of Dominie Van Schaick, 
the village paraou, and which had been brought over from 
Jlolland at the time of the settlement. 

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though 
these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they 
maintained the gravest faces, the nu)st mysterious silence, 
and were, withal, the most melancholy i)arty of pleasure ho 
had ever witnessed. Nothing interru})ted the stillness of 
the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they 
wore rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling- 
peals of thunder. 

As Ui}) and his companion a,{)[)rouched them, they sud- 
denly desisted from their play, and stareil at him with such a 
iixed statue-like gaze, ami such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre 
countenancoi:', that his heart turned within him, and his 
kiu>es smote together. His companion now emptied the 
contents of the keg into large flagons, and nuvde signs to 
him to wait upon the company. He obeyed with fear and 
trembling; they quaifed the liquor in profound 'silence, 
and then returned to their game. 

By degrees, Ivip's awe and apprehension subsided. He 
even ventured, when no eyc^ was fixed upon him, to taste 
the bevor.'ige, which he found had much the liavor of ex- 
cellent Jlollands. He was natui-idlya thirsty soul, and was 
soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked 
another, aiul he reiterated his visits to the llagon so often, 
that at length his senses were overpowered, liis eyes swam 
in his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a 
deep sleep. 

On waking, he found himself on the green knoll from 
whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He 
rubbed his eyes — it was a bright sunny morning. The 
birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and 
the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure moun- 
tain breeze. "Surely," thouj^ht Ui]), "I luive not slept 
here all night." He recalled tlie occurrences before he fell 
asleep. The strange m:i,n with the keg of liquor — the 
mountain ravine — the wild retreat anu)ng the rocks — the 
wo-begone party at nine-pins — the tlagou — " Oh! that 
wickecl llagon!" thoui^ht Kip — "what excuse shall 1 nuike 
to Dame Van Winkle?" 



RTP VAN WINKLE. 43 

TTo looked round for liis gun, hut in place of the clean, 
welf-oiled rovvlirig-pi(H;e, he found an old firelock lying by 
iiim, tlio barrel enci-usted vvilii rust, the lock falling oil", 
and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the 
grave roystcrers of the mountain had i)nt a trick uj)on him, 
luid having dosed him with lirpior, robbed him of his gun. 
Wolf, too, had disaf)pear(Hl, hut he might have strayed 
away after a squirrel or partridge, lie whistled after him 
an<l shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes repeated 
his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen. 

He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's 
gambol, and iC he mot with any of the i)arty, to demand his 
(log and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stilf 
in the joints, and wanting in his usiuil activity. ''These 
mountain b(uls do not agree with me," thought IJip, "and 
if this frolic sliould lay me iif) with a lit of the rheumatism, 
I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle." 
With some difliculty ho got down into the glen; he found 
the gully tip which he and liis companion had ascended 
the preceding evening; but to his astonishment a mountain 
stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to 
rock, and filling tlie glen with babbling murmurs, lie, 
however, made shift to scramble np its sides, working his 
toilsotmi wii,y through thickets oF l)irch, sassafras, and 
witch-haz-el; and sometimes trip{)(!d up or entangled by 
the wild grape vines that twistcuj their coils and tendrils 
from tree to tnui, aiul s()read a kind of network in his path. 

At length he reached to where the ravinc! had opened 
through the clilTs to the ami)hitheatre; but no traces of 
such o|)cniiig remained. The rocdvs presented a high im- 
pt!netral)l(i wall, over which the torrent came tumbling in 
a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad, deep basin, 
black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, 
tluMi, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called 
and whistled after his dog; he was only answered by the 
cawing of a Hock of idle crows, sporting high in the air 
about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and who, 
secure in their elevation, seenunl to look down a.nd scolf at 
th(^ poor man's p(0'|)l(^xiti(^s. Wha,t wiis to be done? The 
niDrniug was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want 
of his bi-ivik fast. 1 1(! griev(Ml to giv(i u[) his dog ;Mid gun; 
ho dreaded to moot his wife; but it would not do to starve 



44 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

among the mountains, lie shook his head, shouldered the 
rusty firelock, and with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, 
turned liis steps homeward. 

As he approached tlie village, he met a number of 
people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised 
him, for he had thought himself acquainted with every one 
in the country round. Their dress, too, was of a different 
fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They all 
stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever 
they cast eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. 
The constant recurrence of this gesture induced Rip, in- 
voluntarily, to do the same, when, to his astonishment, he 
found his beard had grown a foot long ! 

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop 
of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and 
pointing at his grey beard. The dogs, too, not one of 
which he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked at 
him as he passed. The very village was altered : it was 
larger and more populous. There were rows of houses 
which he had never seen before, and those which' had been 
his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names were 
over the doors — strange faces at the windows — everything 
was strange. His mind now misgave him ; he began to 
doubt whether both he and the world around him were not 
bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which he 
had left but a day before. There stood the Kaatskill 
mountains — there ran the silver Hudson at a distance — • 
there was every hill and dale precisely as it had always 
been — Rip was sorely perplexed — '' That flagon last night, '* 
thought he, " has addled my poor head sadly !" 

It was with with some difliculty that he found his way to 
his own house, which he approached with silent awe, ex- 
pecting every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van 
Winkle. He found the house gone to decay — the roof 
fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the 
hinges. A half-starved dog, that looked like Wolf, was 
skulking about it. Rip called him by name, but the cur 
snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an 
unkind cut indeed. — ''My very dog," sighed poor Rip, 
*' has forgotten me !" 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth. Dame 
Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 45 

empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This desolate- 
ness overcame all his connubial fears — he called loudly for 
his wife and children — the lonely chambers rang for a 
moment with his voice, and then all again was silence. 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his okl resort, the 
village inn — but it too was gone. A large rickety wooden 
building stood in its place, with great gaping windows, 
some of them broken, and mended with old hats and petti- 
coats, and over the door Avas painted, " The Union Hotel, 
by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that 
used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there 
now was reared a tall naked pole, with something on the 
top that looked like a red night-cap, and from it was 
fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of 
stars and stripes — all this was strange and incomprehensi- 
ble. He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face 
of King George, under which he had smoked so many a 
peaceful pipe, but even this was singularly metamorphosed. 
The red coat was changed for one of blue and buff, a 
sword was held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head 
was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was 
painted in large characters. General Washington. 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but 
none that Eip recollected. The very character of the 
people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, 
disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed 
phlegm and drowsy tranquility. He looked in vain for 
sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, 
and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco smoke, in- 
stead of idle speeches ; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, 
doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In 
place of these, a lean bilious-looking fellow, with his 
pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently 
about rights of citizens — election — members of Congress — 
liberty — Bunker's hill — heroes of seventy-six — and other 
words, that was a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewil- 
dered Van Winkle. 

The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his 
rusty fowiing-j)iece, his uncouth dress, and the army of 
women and children that had gathered at his heels, soon 
attracted the attention cf the tavern politicians. They 
crowded round him, eyed him from head to foot, with 



46 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

great curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and draw- 
ing him partly aside, inquired, "on which side he voted?" 
Eip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but busy 
little fellow pulled him by the arm, and rising on tiptoe, 
inquired in his ear, "whether he was Federal or Demo- 
crat." Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend the ques- 
tion; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a 
sharp cocked hat, made his Avay through the crowd, put- 
ting them to the right and left with his elbows as he passed, 
and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm 
a-kimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and 
sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, de- 
manded in an austere tone, " what brought him to the 
election wdth a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his 
heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village?" 

"Alas! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I 
am a ]>oor, quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal 
subject of the King, God bless him!" 

Here a general shout burst from the bystanders — "a 
tory! a tory! a spy! a refugee! hustle him! away with 
him!" 

It was with great difficulty that the self-important man 
in the cocked hat restored order; and having assumed a 
tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown 
culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking. 
The poor man humbly assured him that he meant no 
harm, but merely came there in search of some of his 
neighbors, who used too keep about the tavern. 

"Well — who are they? — name them." 

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's 
Nicholas Vedder?" 

There was a silence for a little while, when an old man 
replied, in a thin, piping voice, " Nicholas Vedder? why, 
he is dead and gone these eighteen years! There was a 
"wooden tomb-stone in the church-yard that used to tell all 
about him, but that's rotten and gone too." 

"Where's Brom Dutcher?" 

"Oh, he went oft" to the army in the beginning of the 
war; some say he was killed at the storming of Stony-Point 
— others say he was drowned in the squall, at the foot of 
Antony's Nose. I don't know — he never came back 
again." 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 47 

"Where's Van Bumniel, the schoolmaster?" 

" He went off to the wars, too; was a great militia gen- 
eral, and is now in Congress." 

Eip's heart died away, at hearing of these sad changes in 
his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in 
the world. Every answer puzzled him, too, by treating of 
such enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he 
could not understand: war — Congress — Stony-Point — he 
had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried 
out in despair, " Does nobody here know Eip Van 
Winkle?" 

" Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three. " Oh, 
to be sure! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against 
the tree." 

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself 
as he went up the mountain; apparently as lazy, and cer- 
tainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely 
confounded, lie doubted his own identity, and whether 
he was himself or another man. In the midst of his be- 
wilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he 
was, and what was his name? 

*' God knows," exclaimed he at his wit's end; " I'm not 
myself — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — no — that's 
somebody else, got into my shoes — I was myself last night, 
but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've changed my 
gun, and everything's changed, and I'm changed, and I 
can't tell what's my name, or who I am!" 

The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, 
wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their fore- 
heads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, 
and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief; at the 
very suggestion of which, the self-important man with the 
cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this crit- 
ical moment a fresh comely woman passed through the 
throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a 
chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, 
began to cry. "Hush, Rip," cried she, "hush you little 
fool; the old man won't hurt you." The name of the child, 
the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened 
a train of recollections in his mind. 

" What is your name, my good woman?" asked he. 

"Judith Gardenier." 



48 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

■ "And your father's name?" 

''Ah, poor man, liis name was Rip Vaii Winkle; it's 
twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, 
and novel has been hoard oi; since — his dog came home 
without him; but wlicther he shot himself, or was carried 
away by the Indians, nobody can telL I was then but a 
little girl." 

Kip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with 
a faltering voice: 

" Where's your mother?" 

Oh, she too had died but a sliort time since: she broke a 
blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New-England pedler. 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelli- 
gence. The luniest man could contain himself no longer. 
He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. ''I am 
your father!" cried he — ''Young Rip Van Winkle once — 
old Rip Van Winkle now — Does nobody know poor Rip 
Van Winkle!" 

All stood amazed, until an old w^oman, tottering out 
from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and 
peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, " Sure 
enough! it is Rip Van Winkle — it is himself. Welcome 
home again, old neiglibor — Why, where have you been 
these twenty long years ?" 

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had 
been to him but as one niglit. The neighbors stared when 
they heard it; some were seen to wink at each other, and 
put their tongues in their cheeks; and the self-important 
man in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had 
returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his 
mouth, and shook his head — upon which there was a gen- 
eral shaking of the head throughout the assemblage. 

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old 
Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the 
road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, 
who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the province. 
Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and 
well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the 
neighborhood. He recollected Rip at once, and corrob- 
orated his story in the most satisfactory manner. He 
assured the company that it was a fact, handed down from 
his ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill monntaius 



RrP VAN WINKLE. 49 

had always been haunted by strange beings. That it was 
aflinned that the great Ilendrick lliidsoUj the first discov- 
erer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there 
every twenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon, being 
permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, 
and keep a guardian eye upon tlie river and the great city 
called by his name. That his father had once seen them 
ih their old Dutch dresses playing at nine-pins in the hol- 
low of the mountain; and that he himself liad heard, one 
summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant 
peals of thunder. 

To make a long story short, the company broke up and 
returned to the more important concerns of the election. 
Kip's daughter took him home to live with her; she had a 
snug, well-furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer for 
a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins 
that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and 
heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaniug against the 
tree, he was employed to work on the farm, but evinced a 
hereditary disposition to attend to anything else but his 
business. 

Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found 
many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for 
the wear and tear of time; and preferred making friends 
among the rising generation, with whom he soon grew into 
great favor. 

Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that 
happy age when a man can do nothing with impunity, he 
took his place once more on the bench, at the inn door, 
and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, 
and a chronicle of the old times "before the war." It was 
some time before he could get into the regular track of 
gossip, or could be made to comprehend the strange events 
that had taken place during his torpor. How that there 
had been a revolutionary war — that the country had thrown 
off the yoke of old England — and that, instead of being a 
subject of his majesty George the T^'hird, he was now a free 
citizen of the United States. R.p, in fact, was no politi- 
cian; tlie changes of states and empires made but little 
imp)'ession on him; but there was one species of despotism 
under wliich he had luug gruane.d , and that was — ])eLLicoat 
government. Happily that was At an end; he had got his 



80 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

neck out of the yoke of mntrimony, and could ^o in and 
oul^ wluMievcr lie pleased, without dn^adiuj; Iho tyranny of 
Dume Van Winkle. VVhencver her name was mentioned, 
liowever, he siiook his liead. shrugged his shoulders, and 
cast up his eyes; which might })ass either for an expression 
of resignation to his fate, or joy at his de]iv(>rance. 

He used to toll his story to every stranger i-hat arrived at 
Mr. ])oolittle's hotel. He was observed, at iirst. to vary 
on some points every time he told it, whieh was doubtless 
owing to liis having so recently awaked. It at last settled 
down precisely to the tale I have related, and not a man, 
woman, or child in the luughborhood, but knew it by heart. 
Some always pretended to doubt tJ»e reality of it, and in- 
sisted that Jiip had been out of his i,ead, and that this was 
one })oint on which ho always remained flighty. The old 
Dutch inh-"bitants, however, almost univei'sally gave it full 
credit. Even to this day, they never hear a. thunder-storm 
of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say 
^Ilendrick Hudson aiul his crew are at their gauu^ of nine- 
pins; and it is a common wish of all henpecked husbands 
in th(! neighborhood, when life ha,ugs heavy on their hands, 
that they might have a quieting draft out of Kip Van 
Winkle's flagon. 

NoTK. -Tho forofjoiiifr talo, one wiMild suspcift, had heoii suJTKPstf'd io Mr. 
KnickcrhiK'kt'r by ji littUi (icrinati siiporstitiini about tlu! Empiiror l<1-e(lorick 
</('/• RoHihart and tlic Kyppliaiiser iiioiiiitain ; tl)« subjoined note, howovoi- 
vvbicli \w liad apin'iHlcd to tlio talc, shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated 
vvilli Ins usual luk'lity. 

'■'I'lic slory of Ifip Van Winldo may seem inorcdiblo to ninny, but nevor- 
th(>l('ss I (,'iv(^ it my full lu'licf, for I know Uio vicinity of our old Uutch settle- 
lucnts to liave been vory sulijccl to marvellous "events and appearances. 
Indeed, I liave beard many stranf,'er storic-s than this, in the villaires alonu tlie 
Uudson ; all of which were too well auth(>nticateil to admit of adouht. 1 have 
even talked witli Hip Van Winkh^ myself, who, when I last saw him, was a 
very veiieral)l(> old man, and so perfecvly ral ional and consist(Mit on e\Trvoth(>r 
j)oint, thatl think no eonscientious person could refus(^ to tak(^ this iiito the 
bai'^rain; nay, 1 liave seen a cert iticate on tht> subjec^t taken before aconntry 
justice, and siRnod with a cross, in the .lustice's own hand writinp:. The story, 
therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt." 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMKRIOA. 61 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 

"Metliiriks I w^o in my niind a nobhi ixiiMSunt nation, ronsinpf her 
Rplf like a strong inaii after 8loep, and .sliaUinj^ her invincible locks; 
iMothinks I SL'd Ihm- as an eaglo, uunviiifj^ Ik^i- luif^lity youth, and kind- 
iin<r hiir cnday.y.ltul ryos at tlio I'ull mid-day Ixium." 

Milton on tuk IjIukhty of tiik Pjikss. 

ft is with foolings of deep regret that I observe the liter- 
ii"}^ animosity daily growing up between England and 
(Vnierica. (Jreat curiosity has been awakened of late with 
respect to tlie United States, and the London press has 
l;eeniod with volumes of travels through the llepublic; but 
they seem intiMided to dilfuse error rather than knowledge; 
and so 8ucc(*ssful have tliey been, that, notwithstanding 
Uie constant intercourse between the nations, thei'e is no 
peoi)le concerning whom the great mass of the British 
public hav(i less pure information, or entertain more 
iiumerous prejudices. 

English travellers are the best and the woi-st in the 
ivorkl. Where no motives of })ride or interest intervene, 
none can equal them for profound and philosophical views 
of society, or faithful and graphical descriptions of external 
objects ; but when either the interest or reputation of their 
own country comes in collision with that of another, they 
go to the opposite evtreme, and forget their usual probity 
and candor, ni the indulgence of splenetic remark, and an 
illiberal spirit of ridicule. 

Jlenco, their travels are more honest and accurate, the 
more remote the country described. I would place im- 
pli(;it conlldence in an Englishman's descri])tion of the 
regions beyond the cataracts of the Nile; of unknown 
islands in the Yellow Sea; of the interior of India; or of 
any other tract which other traveUeis might be apt to 
picture out with the illns-ions of their fiuicies. But I 
would cautiously receive his account of his immediate 



52 THE SKETGE-BOOK. 

neighbors, and of those nations with which he is in habits 
of most frequent intercourse. However I might be dis- 
posed to trust his probity, I dare not trust his prejudices. 

It has also been the peculiar lot of our country to be 
visited by the worst kind of English travellers. While 
men of philosophical spirit and cultivated minds have been 
sent from England to ransack the poles, to penetrate the 
deserts, and to study the manners and customs of bar-' 
barous nations, with which she can have no permanent 
intercourse of profit or pleasure; it has been left to the 
broken-down tradesman, the scheming adventurer, the 
vrandering mechanic, the Manchester and Birmingham 
agent, to be her oracles respecting America. From such 
sources she is content to receive her information respecting 
a country in a singular state of moral and physical 
development; a country in which one of the greatest 
political experiments in the history of the world is now 
performing, and which presents the most profound and 
momentous studies to the statesman and the philosopher. 

That such men should give prejudiced accounts of 
America, is not a matter of surprise. The themes it offers 
for contemplation, are too vast and elevated for their 
capacities. The national character is yet in a state of 
fermentation : it may have ii-^ f rothiness and sediment, but 
its ingredients are sound and wholesome: it has already 
given proofs of powerful and generous qualities; and the 
whole promises to settle down in something substantially 
excellent. But the causes which are operating to 
strengthen and ennoble it, and its daily indications of 
admirable properties, are all lost upon these purblind 
observers; who are only affected by the little asperities 
incident to its present situation. They are capable of 
judging only of the surface of things; of those matters 
which come in contact with their private interests and 
personal gratifications. They miss some of the snug con- 
veniences and petty comforts which belong to an old, 
highly-finished, and over-populous state of society; where 
the ranks of useful labor are crowded, and many earn a 
painful and servile subsistence, by studying the very caprices 
of appetite and self-indulgence. These minor comforts, 
however, are all-important in the estimation of narrow 
minds; which either do not perceive, or will not ackuowl- 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 53 

edge, that they are more thau counterbalanced among us, 
by great and generally diffused blessings. 

They may, perhaps, have been disappointed in some un- 
reasonable expectation of sudden gain. They may have 
pictured America to themselves an El Dorado, where gold 
and silver abounded, and the natives were lacking in sagac- 
ity; and where they were to become strangely and suddenly 
rich, in some unforeseen but easy manner. The same weak- 
ness of mind that indulges absurd expectations, produces 
petulance in disappointment. Such persons become em- 
bittered against the country on finding that there, as every- 
where else, a man must sow before he can reap; must win 
wealth by industry and talent; and must contend with the 
common difficulties of nature, and the shrewdness of an 
intelligent and enterprising people. 

Perhaps, through mistaken or ill-directed hospitality, or 
from the prompt disposition to cheer and countenance the 
stranger, prevalent among my countrymen, they may have 
been treated with unwonted respect in America; and, hav- 
ing been accustomed all their lives to consider themselves 
below the surface of good society, and brought up in a ser- 
vile feeling of inferiority, they become arrogant, on the 
common boon of civility; they attribute to the lowliness of 
others their own elevation; and underrate a society where 
there are no artificial distinctions, and where by any chance, 
such individunls as themselves can rise to consequence. 

One would suppose, however, that information coming 
from such sources, on a subject where the truth is so desir- 
able, would be received with caution by the censors of the 
press; that the motives of these nien. their veracity, their 
opportunities of inquiry and observanon, and their capaci 
ties for judging correctly, would be rigorously scrutinized, 
before their evidence was adrniircd, in such sweeping ex- 
tent, against a kindred nation. The very reverse, however, 
is the case, and it furnishes a ^i/iking instance of human 
inconsistency. Nothing can ^n-pass the vigilance with 
which English critics will examine the credibility of the 
traveller who publishes an account of some distant, and 
comparatively unimportant, country. How warily will 
they compare the measurements of a pyramid, or the de- 
scription of a ruin; and how sternly will they censure any 
inaccuracy in these contributions of merely curious knowl- 



54 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

edge; while they will receive, with unhesitating good faith, 
the gross misrepresentations of coarse and obscure writers, 
concLuniing a cou.iitiy with which their own is placed in the 
most important and delicate relations. Nay, they will even 
make these apocryphal volumes text-books, on which to 
enlarge, with a zeal and an ability worthy of a more gen- 
erous cause. 

I shall not, however, dwell on this irksome and hack- 
ne3'ed topic; nor should I have adverted to it, but for the 
undue interest apparently taken in it by my countrymen, 
and certain injurious elTects which 1 apprehend it might 
produce upon the national feeling. We attach too much 
consequence to these attacks. They cannot do us any es- 
sential injury. The tissue of misrepresentations attempted 
to be woven round us, are like cobwebs woven round tlie 
limbs of an infant giant. Our country continually out- 
grows them. One falsehood after another falls olf of itself. 
We have but to live on, and every day we live a whole vol- 
ume of refutation. All the writers of England united, if 
we could for a inoment suppose their great minds stooping 
to so unworthy a combination, could not conceal our rap- 
idly growing importance and nuitchless prosperity. They 
could not conceal that these are owing, not merely to phys- 
ical and local, but also to moral causes; to the political 
liberty, the general dilfusion of knowledge, the prevalence 
of sound, moral, and religious principles, which give force 
and sustained energy to the character of a people; and 
which, in fact, have been the acknowledged and wonderful 
supporters of their own national power and glory. 

But why are we so exquisitely alive to the aspersions of 
England? Why do we suffer ourselves to be so aflt'ected by 
the contumely she has endeavored to cast upon us? It is 
not in the opinion of England alone that honor lives, and 
reputation has its being. The world at large is the arbiter 
of a nation's fame; with its thousand eyes it witnesses a 
nation's deeds, and from their collective testimony is na- 
tional glory or national disgrace established. 

For ourselves, therefore, it is comparatively of but little 
importance whether England does us justice or rot; it is, 
perhaps, of far more importance to herself. She is instill- 
ing anger and resentment into the bosom of a youthful na- 
tion, to grow with its growth, and strengLheii with its 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 55 

strength. If in Aiiiurica, us some of her writers are labor- 
ing to convince her, she is hereafter to find an invidious 
rival, and a gigantic foe, she may thank those very writers 
for having j^rovoked rivalship, and irritated hostility. 
Every one knows tlie all-pervading influence of literature 
at the present day, and how much the opinions and pas- 
sions of mankind are under its control. 'Jhe mere contests 
of the sword are temporary; their wounds are but in the 
flesh, and it is the pride of the generous to forgive and for- 
get them; but the slanders of the pen pierce to the heart; 
they rankle longest in the noblest spirits; they dwell ever 
present in the mind, and render it morbidly sensitive to 
the most trifling collision. It is but seldom that any one 
overt act produces hostilities between two nations; there 
exists, most commonly, a previous jealousy and ill-will, a 
predisposition to take offence. Trace these to their cause, 
and how often will they be found to originate in the mis- 
chievous effusions of mercenary writers; who, secure in 
their closets, and for ignominious bread, concoct and circu- 
late the venom that is to inflame the generous and the 
brave. 

I am not laying too much stress upon this point; for it 
applies most emphatically to our particuhir case. Over no 
nation does the press hold a more absolute control than 
over the people of America; for the universal education of 
the poorer classes makes every individual a reader. There 
is nothing published in England on the subject of our coun- 
try, that does not circulate through every part of it. There 
is not a calumny dropt from an English pen, nor an un- 
worthy sarcasm uttered by an English statesman, that does 
not go to blight good-will, and add to the mass of latent 
resentment. Possessing, then, as England does, the foun- 
tain-head from whence the literature of the language flows, 
how completely is it in her power, and how truly is it her 
duty, to make it the medium of amiable and magnanimous 
feeling — a stream where the two nations might meet to- 
gether, and drink in peace and kindness. Should she, 
however, persist in turning it to waters of bitterness, the 
time may come when she may repent her folly. The pres- 
ent friendship of America may be of but little moment to 
her; but the future dcstir.ios of that country do not admit 
of a doubt: over those of England, there lower some shad- 



56 TBE SKETCH-BOOK. 

0W8 of uncertainty. Slioukl, tlum, u day of gloom arrive 
— should those reverses overtake her, from which the proud- 
est empires have not been exempt — she indyhjok back with 
regret at her infatuation, in repulsing from he/ side a na- 
tion she might have grappled to her bosom, and thus de- 
stroying her only chance for real friendship beyond the 
boundaries of her own dominions. 

There is a general impression in England, that the peo- 
ple of the United States are inimical to the parent coun- 
try. It is one of the errors which has been diligently propa- 
gated by designing writers. There is, doubtless, consider- 
able political hostility, and a general soi'cness at the illiber- 
ality of the English press; but, collectively speaking, the 
prepossessions of the people are strongly in favor of Eng- 
land. Indeed, at one time they amounted, in many parts 
of the Union, to an absurd degree of bigotry. The bare 
name of Englishman was a passport to the confidence and 
hospitality of every family, and too often gave a transient 
currency to the worthless and the ungrateful. Through- 
out the country, there was something of enthusiasm con- 
nected with the idea of England. We looked to it with a 
hallowed feeling of tenderness and veneration, as the land 
of our forefathers — the august repository of the monuments 
and antiquities of our race — the birth-place and mausoleum 
of the sages and heroes of our paternal history. After our 
own country, there was none in whose glory we more de- 
lighted — none whose good opinion we were anxious to pos- 
sess — none toward which our hearts yearned with such 
throbbings of warm consanguinity. Even during the late 
war, whenever there was the least opportunity for kind feel- 
ings to spring forth, it was the delight of the generous spir- 
its of our country to show that in the midst of hostilities 
they still kept alive the sparks of future friendship. 

Is all this to be at an endj* Is this golden band of 
kindred sympathies, so rare between nations, to be broken 
forever? — Perhaps it is for the best — it may dispel an illu- 
sion which might have kept us in mental vassalage; which 
might have interfered occasionally with our true interests, 
and prevented the growth of proper national pi'ide. But it 
is hard to give up the kindred tie! — and there are feelings 
dearer tlian interest — closer to the heart than pride — that 
will still make us cast back a look of regret as we wander 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA, 57 

farther and fartlier from the paternal roof, and lament the 
waywardness of the parent that would repel the affections 
of the child. 

Short-sighted and injudicious, however, as the conduct 
of England may be in this system of aspersion, recrimina- 
tion on our part would be equally ill-judged. I speak not 
of a prompt and spirited vindication of our country, or the 
keenest castigation of her slanderers — but I allude to a dis- 
position to retaliate in kind, to retort sarcasm and inspire 
prejudice, which seems to be spreading widely among our 
writers. Let us guard particularly against such a temper; 
for it would double the evil, instead of redressing the 
wrong. Nothing is so easy and inviting as the retort of 
abuse and sarcasm; but it is a paltry and unprofitable con- 
test. It is the alternative of a morbid mind, fretted into 
petulance, rather than warmed into indignation. If Eng- 
land is willing to permit the mean jealousies of trade, or 
the rancorous animosities of politics, to deprave the 
integrity of her press, and poison the fountain of public 
opinion, let us beware of her example. She may deem it 
her interest to diffuse error, and engender antipathy, for 
the purpose of checking emigration; we have no purpose of 
the kind to serve. Neither have we any spirit of national 
jealousy to gratify; for as yet, in all our rivalships with 
England, we are the rising and the gaining party. There 
can be no end to answer, therefore, but the gratification of 
resentment — a mere spirit of retaliation; and even that is 
impotent. Our retorts are never published in England; 
they fall short, therefore, of their aim; but they foster a 
querulous and peevish temper among our writers; they 
sour the sweet flow of our early literature, and sow thorns 
and brambles among its blossoms. What is still worse, 
they circulate through our own country, and, as far as they 
have effect, excite virulent national prejudices. This last 
is the evil most especially to be deprecated. Governed, as 
we are, entirely by public opinion, the utmost care should 
be taken to preserve the purity of the public mind. 
Knowledge is power, and truth is knowledge; whoever, 
therefore, knowingly propagates a prejudice, willfully saps 
the foundation of his country's strength. 

The members of a republic, above all other men, should 
be candid and dispassionate. They are, individually, por- 



58 TEK SKETCU-BOOK. 

tioius of the sovevuii^ii iniml iiiul soveivii^u will, and bIiouIiI 
bo eniiblod to conin to nil (|iiosLioiis of imtionul eonconi with 
calm and unl)iiisscd jiid^iiu'iity. b'roiu tlu^ ])('i'uliiii' naiiiro 
of our relations with Knyland, W(> nnist have nion^ fri'((uent 
questions of a dillicnlt and delieate eharacter with hor, 
tlnin with any other nation; (|iiestion8 that alTect tJie most 
acute and excitable feelings: and as, in the adjusting; of 
these, our national measures nuist ultimately be determined 
by popular sentiment, we cannot be too anxiously atleidivo 
to (»urify it from all latent })assion or prepossession. 

()[)eninf>' too, as wo do, an asylum tor strangers from 
ovei-y [)ortion of the earth, wo should receive all with im- 
partiality. It should be our pride to exhibit an example of 
one luition, at least, destitute of national antipathies, and 
cxennsing. not nu»roly the overt a(^ts of hosj)itidity, but 
those nu)re rare aiul noble courtesies which s[)rini>; from 
liberality of o[)inion. 

What have we to do with national ]n-ejudiees? 'riu>y are 
the inveterate diseases of old countries, contracted in^-rudo 
and ignorant ages, when nations knew but little of each 
other, and looked beyond their own bouiularies with dis- 
trust a,nd hostility. Wi\ on the contrary, have sprung into 
national cxisteiuH^ in an enlightened and philosophic ago. 
when the diU'eront parts of the habitable world, and tho 
various branches of tho hunuin family, have boon indefat- 
igably studied and made known to each other; and wo 
forego tho advantages of our birth, if we do not sliako otl! 
tho national })r(^jutlicos, as wo would tho local su])erstitions, 
of the old world. 

But above all, let us not be inlluonccd by any angry feel- 
ings, so far as to shut our eyes to the perception of what is 
really excellent and amiable in tlu' ViUglish character. Wo 
are a young people, ntHH'ssarily an imitatiyo one, aiul must 
take our examples and nuxlels, in a groat degree, from tho 
existing na.tions of l<juro[)(\ TlK^ro is iu> country more 
worthy of our study than l^higland. Tlu* spirit of hor con- 
stitution is nu)st analogous to onrs. 'I'he numnors of lior 
people — their intellectual activity — their frtHMJom of opin- 
ion — their habits of thinking on those subjects which con- 
cern tho dearest intorosis aiul un)st sacred charities of 
private life, are all congenial to tho American (diaracster; 
tti\d, ill fact, are all intrinsically excellent: for it is in the 



ENGLISn WRITERS ON AMKRIOA. 59 

moral fcoliiif^ oi" Llic }kh)[)1c ihiiL llu; dfM'p foundations oi 
Britisli prosperity arc laid; and however the superstrueture 
nijiy be time-worn, or overrun by abuses, there must be 
Hometliing solid in the basis, admirable in tiio materials, 
and stable in the structure of an ediliec that so long has 
towered unshaken amid the tempests of the world. 

fjet it be the pride of our writers, therefore, discardiiiij 
all feelings of irritiition, and disdaiinng to rtstaHate the 
illib(M'ality of Bi'itiMh authors, to speak of the English na- 
tion withoid, prejudi('.(\ and with (h(t('rmim;d eanih)!'. While 
they I'ebuke the indiscn'imiiuiting bigotry with which some 
of our (jountrymen ndmire ;uid imitate ev(M-ytliiiig Mngiish, 
merely because it is English, hit them fr;uik!y point out 
what is really worthy of ap|>ro[)a,tion. We may thus place 
Kngland before us as a pcsrpcttual volume of reference, 
wh(!r(iin are recoi-dod sound diidiictions from ages of expo- 
rien(!e; and whihi we avoid the errors ami absurdities that 
have crept into the page, we may draw thence golden 
maxims of pra(!tical wisdom, wherewith to strengthen and 
ombellish our national character. 



60 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 

Oh! friendly to the best pursuits of man, 
Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, 
Domestic life in rural pleasures past! 

Cow PER, 

The stranger who would form a correct opinion of the 
English character, must not confine his observations to the 
metropolis. He must go forth into the country; he must 
sojourn in villages and hamlets; he must visit castles, vil- 
las, farm-houses, cottages; he must wander through parks 
and gardens; along hedges and greeu lanes; he must loiter 
about country churches; attend wakes and fairs, and other 
rural festivals; and cope with tlie people in all theii' con- 
ditions, and all their habits and humors. 

In some countries, the large cities absorb the wealth and 
fasliion of the nation; they are the only lixed abodes of ele- 
gant and intelligent society, and tiie coui\try is inhabited 
almost entirely by boorish peasantry. In England, on the 
contrary, the metropolis is a mere gathering place, or gen- 
eral rendezvous, of the polite classes, where they devote a 
small portion of the year to a hurry of gayety atid dissipa- 
tion, and having indulged tliis kind of carnival, return 
again to the apparently more congenial habits of rural life. 
The various orders of society are therefore diffused over the 
whole surface of the kingdom, and the most retired neigh- 
borlioods afford specimens of the dilTci'ent ranks. 

The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rur.-il 
feeling. They possess a quick sensibility to the beauties of 
luiture, and a keen relish for the pleasures and employ- 
ments of the country. This passion seems inherent in 
them. Even the inhabitants of cities, born and brought 
up among brick walls and bustling streets, enter with facil- 
ity into rural habits, and evince a tact for rural occn}iation. 
The merchant has his snug retreat in the vicinity of the 
metropolis, where he often displays as much pride and zeal 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 61 

in the cultivation of his flower-garden, and the maturing of 

his fruits, as ho does in the conduct o:^ Ins biisiue.sf^, Mid 
the success of a coinniercial enterprise. Even tliuse less 
fortunate individuals, who are doonu^d to pass their lives in 
the midst of din and trallic, contrive to have sornetliing 
that shall remind them of the green aspect of nature. In 
the most dark and dingy quartei's of the city, the drawing- 
room window resembles frequently a bank of llowers; every 
spot capable of vegetation has its grass-plot and Howcr-bed; 
and every square its mimic park, laid out with picturesque 
taste, and gleaming with refreshing verdure. 

Those who see tlie Englishman only in town, are apt to 
form an unfavorable opinion of his social character, lie is 
either absorbed in business, or distracted by the thousand 
engagements that dissipate time, thought, and feeling, in 
this huge metropolis. He has, therefore, too commoidy, 
a look of hurry and abstraction. Wherever he happens 
to be, he is on tlie point of going somcMdiere else; at the 
moment he is talking on one subject, his mind is wan- 
dering to another; and while paying a friendly visit, he 
is calculating how he shall economize time so as to pay 
the other visits allotted to the morning. An immense 
metropolis, like London, is calculated to make men sel- 
fish and uninteresting. In their casual and transient 
meetings, they can but deal briefly in commonplaces. 
They present but the cold superflces of character — its 
rich and genial qualities have no time to be warmed into 
a flow. 

It is in the country that the Englishman gives scope 
to his natural feelings. He breaks loose gladly from the 
cold formalities and negative civilities of town; throws 
off his habits of shy reserve, and becomes joyous and frec;- 
hearted. He manages to collect round him all the con- 
veniences and elegancies of polite life, and to bainsh its re- 
straints. His country seat abounds with every requisite, 
either for studious retirement, tasteful gratiflcation, or 
rur;d exercise. Books, paintings, music, horses, dogs, and 
sporting implements of all kinds, are at hand. He puts 
no constraint, either upon his guests or himself, but, in 
the true spirit of hospitality, provides the nutans of enjoy- 
ment, and leaves everyone to partake according to his incli- 
nation. 



08 



rur sK/'Tcii nooi:. 



Tlio laMti> (>r ^^^o K\\y}\n\\ in lUo inill iviiiioii nf Iniid. luid 
ill wliiil. IM (nilliMl liiiHlM("it|i(i /.•iinliMUiif.'. in tiiirivMlltHl. 'I'lioy 
i|iiA'«t HliidiiMl Niiliii'it iulviilly, niid diN(^()v<^n>d nii t>\(|iiiHil.t) 
it(<itMo of IxM' lifiiiiliriil ronim iind luuiiioiiioiiH ontidiiiiittioiiH. 
TlioHit (^liiiriiiH whirli, ill oIIum' (MMiiitiiitH, hIk^ liiviHlirH in 
wild HoliliidoH, iM'(t how i\mo\\\\\\\H\ round tli(« IiiiiiiiIk of 
tloinoHtic lil't*. 'I'lirv HiMMii to liHVi* ciiii^flil. her coy and 
I'lirtivt^ ^I'HooH, Hiid s|)riwi.tl llioiii, liko wiloliory. mIioiiI. Iliitir 
riiniJ ii,l>odt>M. 

Nol liini^ciiii lit' moio im|ii>.'iini.> lluiu llir iniif'.iiillmico oT 
llnj^liMli piirk H(<t*iuM'v. \'ii.m|. Iiiwiih IIiiiI t^vli^ud liko hIiooIk 
of vivid gi'(ion, wiln Ittuo iind (hero citiinpH ol' f^if^imlio 
ti'ooH, lutHpiiiLr tip rich iiiltiH of folinv'.c. 'VUo Nolcinn |)oni|) 
of g'i'ovcH iiiid woodliiiul gltid(>H, wilii llu> deer lr()o|uii^', in 
Hilcnl. luM'dH iicroMM I licni ; Ihc Itiro, Imiindiii^ iiwiiy to lli(> 
covt>rl ; or I ho |dic!iHiinl. Miidih'idy hiirnlin^ niton lh«< win^'. 
The hi'ook, liin).>hl lo wind in luiliinil ln(^lllulcrin^,H, or cx- 
imnd into ii j^hiMMy lukc the MC(|neM|tiriMi pool, iiillecl in^' 
Ihe (piiveriii;^' I rei^M, with the yellow leiif Hleepili^f-uli ilH 
hoHoiii, luid iliit Irotit. roiiniinf* fi^nrhviMly tihoiit. ilH limpid 
wnlei'M: while Moine niHlie temple, or hvIviui Htutiie, ^^iiown 
l^reeu iind ditnk with iim<. given iin air of chiNHiii Miinctily (o 
Iho M(«(^lnMioii. 

'riuv«> are hill. a. few »d' the I'l^atnreH of park Hceiiery; hiil, 
what nioHl d(di;j;htM me, in the creative liilenl. with which 
{.\\o IflnL'Jish tiecorale t hi^ nnoMliinlalioiiH ahodi^n of middle 
lifit. The riidcMt. hahitation, i]\o monl. iinproiiiiHinf; and 
Mcanty portion of laiul, in the liandtt of an MnuliMhmnn of 
laHte. Imuvmim^h h little paratliMc. With a iiict*ly diMciimi 
naliiif^' i\ve. h«» Mei/CM at' once upon itn capahilititvi, and 
|)i(itnreM in liin mind the future landHcapit. The Nt«M'ile 
npot gr<»WH into lovelinertH under Ium hand; and yet the 
operaliouMof art whitdi prodiii>e the ell'ect are Hcariiely |t» 
he p»»rceived, The cheriHhinj^ and t raining' of Nome lr«u>N; 
lUo cHulioiiH pruning <d' othei'M; the nice diHtrihiition of 
tlow(U'H and plautMof tender and gnnud'nl foliage; tint intro 
diiiition of a gretui Hlope of vidvi^l turf; the partial opening 
to a peep of hlin» diMtanee, or Milver ghuun of water all 
thewe ar(< managed with a delicate (act, ii pervading yet 
<|\ii««t aHMidiiity, like tint nuigit^ tomdiingN with which a 
paintiM' llni.'ihcM up a favorilc niclure. 

The n>Hid(<iuHi of pl^opl«^«l^ rortune ami ixUliietiuwit in tho 



RURAL LIFE TN ENGLAND. 63 

coiiiil,ry, liiiH (lilTiiMdd a d(i/,a-cn5 of UihIo and ologaiuui in 
rural t'couomy, that (I(*ho(mi(1h to tiio lowest (;lass. 'TIk! 
V(3ry laborer, with IiIh thatcluid (!()tla).((! jukI iiaiiow Hli|) of 
grouiul, attoiuirt to thoir omhullishnauit Thu trim IkuI^o, 
thu fj;niHS-j)Iot hoforu tluidoor, tho littUs llowor-bml horddred 
with Hini<>; box, tlm wnodhino trained up H<>;ainst the wall, 
and hanginp^ itH hloHsoinH al)ont the latti(;e; tlie pot of 
llowei'H in tlie window; th(* holly, providently [jliuitcnl jilxint 
the house, to (dieat wintor of itH dnfarineKs, and to throw 
in a H(iinl)laii('e of f^rcuui Huniniei' to eheer the lii'eisidct; — nil 
thoHe hespctak the inllnenee of taste, llowin^ down fi'om 
\\\\f}\ 80iir(!(\M, and pervading;" the lowi^st levels oi' tlui piihlic 
inind. If ever Love, as poets m\\f, delij^hts to visit a 
cottaj^'o, it must he tlui eottajL^e of an l^hi^lish peasant. 

'riici fondm^ss for rural lite ainon;^" the hi;^her classes of 
th(i Mnj^dish, has had a ;4'r('at and salutary elfei^t u])on tho 
luitioual ehai'iMitor. I do not know a liner raee of men 
than the Kuj^lish gcuitleinen. Instead of tho softiuisa ami 
olTeminaey which c.hiira(5teri/.e tho men of rank in most 
oountries, they exhibit an union of elegance and strength, 
a robustness of franm find freshness of eomjdexion, wliieh 
1 am incliuiMl to attribute to their living so much in the 
oi)en air, and pursuing so eagerly tho invigorating recu-e- 
ations of the counl.ry. The luirdy (fxeniiscs produce also a 
lu^idthful U)\M of mind ami spirits, and a nuiiilim^ss and 
simplicity of manners, which tiven the follies and dissi- 
])ations of the town cannot easily pervert, and can never 
entirely destroy. In the (lountry, too, the ditferent orders 
of society seem to approjudi more freely, to bo more dig- 
j)ose(l to blend and operate favorably upon each other. 
The distinctions between them do not appear to bo so 
marked and impassable, as in the cities. The manner in 
whiish i)ro[)erty hii-s been disti-ibnted into simill estates and 
farms, has estiiblished a regidar gradation from the noble- 
men, through tlie classes of g(!ntry, small landed proprietors, 
and substantial farmers, down to tins lal)oring pttasantry; 
and while it has thus banded the extremes of society 
logclh(q', lias infus(^l into eat h intciniuidiate rank a spirit 
of independ(Mi(!e. This, it must be (lonfesscd, is not so 
iinivcwsally the case at prcssent as it was formerly; the 
larger estates having, in late yeans of distres;-!, a-bsorlx^d the 
umalloi", ami, in some parts of tho country, almost annihi- 



64 THE 8KET0H-B00K. 

lated the sturdy race of small fanners. Those, however, 
I boliovii, are but oasual breaks in the gonei';!,! S3's(-cm 1 
have inon Moiled. 

Ill rural oociipaiion, tlicre is nothing mean and debas- 
ing. It lejids a man fui'Lh among seeiies of natural grander r 
and beauty; it leaves him to the workings of his own mind, 
operateii upon by the purest and most elevating of external 
inilucnees. Sueh a niiui may be simple and rough, but he 
tiaunoL be vulgar. Tiie man of relinement, therefore, lliids 
nothing revolting in an interecurse with the lower orders 
in rural life, as he does when ho casually mingles with the 
lower orders of cities, lie lays aside his distance and re- 
serve, and is glad to waive the disti)ictioiis of rank, and to 
enter into the honest, heartfelt enjoyments of common life. 
Indeed, the very amusements of the country bring men 
more and more together; and the sound of hound jind 
horn blend all fetilings into harmony. 1 believe this is one 
great reason why the nobility and gentry are more populur 
among the inferior orders in Kngland, than tliey are in any 
other country: and why the latter liavo endured so many 
excessive ])ressures and extrcmiitic^s. without repining more 
generally at the une(|ual disti-ibution of fortune and privi- 
lege. 

To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society, may 
also 1)0 attributed the rund feeling that runs through Brit- 
ish literature; the frecpient use of illustrations from rural 
life; those incomparable descriptions oi Nature, that abound 
in the British poets — that have continued down from "The 
Flower and tlie LeaT" of Chancier, and have bi'ought into 
our eloscits all the freshness and fi-agranee of the dewy 
landscape. The jiastoi'al writers of other countries ai>])ear 
as if they had paid Nature jui occasional visit, and become 
acquainted with her general charms; but the Bi'itish poets 
have lived and revelkid with her — they liavo wooed her in 
her most secret haunts — they have watched her mimitest 
ca})riceB. A spray could not tremble in the breeze — a leaf 
could not rustle to the ground — a-diamond drop could not 
patter in the stream — a fragrance could not exhale from 
the humble violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to 
the morning, but it has been noticed by these impassioned 
and delicate observers, and wrought up into some beauti- 
ful morality. 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 65 

Tho effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural oc- 
cuj>ations, has boon wonderful on the face of the country. 
A great part of the island is rather level, and would be 
monotonous, were it not for the charms of culture; but it 
is studded and gemmed, as it were, with castles and pal- 
aces, and embroidered with parks and gardens. It does 
not abound in grand and sublime prospects, but rather in 
little home scenes of rural repose and sheltered quiet. 
Every antique farm-house and moss-grown cottage is a pict- 
ure: and as the roads ai-e continually winding, and tho 
view is shut in by groves ami hedges, the eye is delighted 
by a continual succession of small laiulscapes of captivating 
loveliness. 

The great charm, however, of English scenery, is the 
moral fecHng that seems to pervade it. It is associated in 
the mind witli ideas of order, of quiet, of sober well-estab- 
lished principles, of hoary us;igc and reverend custom. 
Everything seems to be the growth of ages of regular and 
peaceful existence. The old church, of remote architec- 
ture, with its low massive portal; its gothic tower, its 
windows, rich with tracery and painted glass, in soruj)ulou8 
preservation — its stately monuments of warriors and wor- 
thies of the olden time, ancestors of the present lords of the 
soil — its tombstones, recording successive generations of 
sturdy yeomanry, whose ])rogeny still plow the same fields, 
and kneel at the same altar — the parsonage, a qiuiint, ir- 
regular pile, jiartly antiquated, but repaired and altered in 
the tastes of various ages and occupants — the stile and foot- 
path leading from the church-yard, across })leasant fields 
and along shady hedge-rows, according to an immemorable 
right of way — the neighboring village, with its venerable 
cottages, its public green, sheltered by trees, under which 
the forefathers of the present race have sported — the an- 
tique family mansion, standing apart in some little rural 
domain, but looking down with a protecting air on the sur- 
rouiuliug scene — all these commoii features of English 
landscape evince a calm and settled security, a hereditary 
transmission of homebred virtues and local attachments, 
that speak deeply and touchingly for the moral character 
of the nation. 

It is a pleasing sight, of a Sunday morning, when the 
bell is sending its sober melody across the quiet fields, to 



66 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

behold the peasantry in their best finery, with niddy faces, 
jiiul niodost: chccrfuliioss, tlirongiiij^ trjuiqiiilly along the 
j!;r(>(Mi laiios to chuivli; hut it. is still nioio ploiisinjjj to see 
tluMii in tiio evcniiiii,s, i;!itlK'riiig' iihout their rott!i,i;t> doors, 
uiui iippi'iirini;" to exult in tlu> luimhlo i-oniforls and endiol- 
lishnuMits whicli their own haiuis have spn'ad ni'ound them. 
It. is this sweet home feelintj, tliis settled repose of aHVe- 
iion in the domestic scene, that is, after all. the parent, of 
the steadiest virtues iind purest enjoyments; and 1 catuiot 
close these desultory remarks better, than by quoting the 
words of a. modern English poet, who 1ms depicted it with 
ronuirkablo felicity: 

Through each pTadation, fiMiii the castled hall, 

Tli«» citv (]t>iiio, tlie villa crowiuHl witli shade, 

Hilt I'liicr rroiii modest iiiimsiiins iiuntlu>iios8, 

111 town (ir liaiulct, slioH'iiii^' iui(liil(> life, 

I>(nvn to llie <'ot((is;cd vale, and straw- root'd slu>d, 

Tliis \v(<st(>rn isle lias \ouiX 1)<"»mi faiued I'er scenes 

\\'li(>re l)liss diuiieslic liiids a dwelling ]>lace: _^^ 

Donicstic bliss, that like n harntless dove 

(Honor and swtn't endenrincn) koej)ing guard). 

Can ('("ntre in a iiltlo <]uiet nest 

All that desire would fly tor llirouirh the earth; 

That can. tlio world eluding-, ho its»>!t 

A worKl enjoyed; that waii'.s ik* witnesses 

H\it it»s own sliarers. and aiiprovinst Heaven. 

That, like a flower deep liid in rooky olelt. 

Smiles, though 'tis only looking at the sky.* 

* li'rnn a nocni on the doatii of the Prln^.^es8 Charlotte, by the Reverend 
lliuin K(>nneay, A. M. 



THE BROKEN HEART, 67 



THE BEOKEN HEART. 

I never heard, 
Of any true affection, but 'twas nipt 
With care, that, like the caterpillar, eats 
The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose. 

MiDDLKTON. 

It is a common practice with tliose who have outlived 
the susceptibility of early feeling, or have been brought up 
in the gay heartlessness of dissipated life, to laugh at all 
love stories, and to treat the tales of romantic passion as 
mere fictions of novelists and poets. My observations on 
human nature have induced me to think otherwise. Tiiey 
have convinced me, that however the surface of the char- 
acter may bo chilled and frozen by the cares of the world, 
or cultivated into mere smiles by the arts of society, still 
there are dormant fires lurking in the depths of the coUiest 
bosom, wliich, when once enkindled, become impetuous, 
and are sometimes desolating in their effects. Indeed, I 
am a true believer in th( bhnd deity, and go to the full 
extent of his doctrines. Shall I confess it?— 1 believe in 
broken hearts, and the possibility of dying of disap- 
pointed love! I do not, however, consider it a malady 
often fatal to my own sex; but I firmly believe that it 
withers down many a lovely woman into an early grave. 

Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His 
nature leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the 
world. Love is but the embellishment of his early life, or 
a song piped in the intervals of the acts. He peeks for 
fame, for fortune, for space in the world's thouo^ht, and 
dominion over his fellow-men. But a woman's whole life 
is a history of the affection. The heart is her world; it ia 
there her ambition strives for empire — it is there her 
avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends f' rth her 
sy iivathies on adventure; she embarks her whole soul in 
th3 iralfic of affection; and if shipwrecked, her case is 
hopeless — for it is a bankruptcy of the heart. 



68 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

To a man, the disappoinment of love may occasion some 

bitter pangs: it wounds some feelings of tenderness— it 
blasts some prospects of felicity; but he is an active being; 
he may dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of varied occu- 
pation, or may plunge into the tide of pleasure; or, if the 
scene of disappointment be too full of painful associations, 
he can shift his abode at will, and taking, as it were, the 
wings of the morning, can "fly to the uttermost parts of 
the earth, and be at rest/' 

But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and a 
meditative life. She is more the companion of her own 
thoughts and feelings; and if they are turned to ministers 
of sorrow, where shall she look for consolation? Her lot is 
to be woed and won; and if unhappy in her love, her heart 
is like some fortress that has been captured, and sacked, 
and abandoned, and left desolate. 

How many bright eyes grow dim — how many soft cheeks 
^row pale — how many lovely forms fade away into the 
tomb, and none can tell the cause that blighted tlieir love- 
liness! As the dove will clasp its wings to its side, and 
cover and conceal the arrow that is preying on its vitals — 
so is it the nature of woman to hide from the world the 
pangs of wounded affection. The love of a delicate female 
is always shy and silent. Even when fortunate, she 
scarcely breathes it to herself; but when otherwise, she 
buries it in the recesses of her bosom, and there lets it 
cower and lirood among the ruins of her peace. With her, 
the desire of her heart has failed — the great charm of exist- 
ence is at an end. She neglects all the cheerful exercises 
which gladden the spirits, quicken the pulses, and send the 
tide of life in healthful currents through the veins. Her 
rest is broken — the sweet refreshment of sleep is poisoned 
by melancholy dreams — "^dry sorrow drinks her blood," 
until her enfeebled frame sinks under the slightest external 
injury. Look for her, after a while, and you find friendship 
weeping over her untimely grave, and wondering that one, 
Avho but lately glowed with all the radiance of health and 
beauty, should so speedily be brought down to "darkness 
and the worm." You will be told of some wintry chill, 
some casual indisposition, that laid her low — but no one 
knows the mental malady that jireviously sapped her 
strength, and made her so easy a prey to the spoiler. 



THE BROKEN HEART. 69 

She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of the 
grove: graceful in its form, bright in its foliao^e, but with 
the worm preying at its heart. We find it suddenly wither- 
ing, when it should be most fresh and luxuriant. We see it 
drooping its branches to the earth, and shedding leaf by 
leaf; until, wasted and perished away, it falls even in the 
stillness of the forest; and as we muse over the beautiful 
ruin, we strive in vain to recollect the blast or thunderbolt 
that could have smitten it with decay. 

I have seen many instances of women running to waste 
and self-neglect, and disappearing gradually from the earth, 
almost as if they had been exhaled to heaven; and have re- 
peatedly fancied that I could trace their deaths through 
the various declensions of consumption, cold, debility, lan- 
guor, melancholy, until I reached the first symptom of dis- 
appointed love. But an instance of the kind was lately 
told to me; the circumstances are well known in the coun- 
try where they happened, and I shall but give them in the 
manner in which they were related. 

Everyone must recollect the tragical story of young E , 

the Irish patriot: it was too touching to be soon forgotten. 
During the troubles in Ireland he was tried, condemned, 
and executed, on a charge of treason. His fate made a 
deep impression on public sympathy. He was so young — 
so intelligent — so generous— so brave — so everything that 
we are apt to like in a young man. His conduct under 
trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. • The noble indigna- 
tion with which he repelled the charge of treason against 
his country — the eloquent vindication of his name — and 
his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the hopeless hour of 
condemnation — all these entered deeply in every generous 
bosom, and even his enemies lamented the stern jDolicy that 
.dictated his execution. 

But there was one heart, whose anguish it would be im- 
possible to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes, 
he had won the affections of a beautiful and interesting 
girl, the daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. She 
loved him with the disintei-ested fervor of a woman^s first 
and early love. When every worldly maxim arrayed itself 
against him; when blasted in fortune, and disgrace and 
danger darkened around his name, she loved him the more 
ardently for his very sufferings. If, then^ his fate could 



70 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

awaken the sympathy even of his foes, what must have 
been the agony of her, whose whole soul was occupied by 
his image? Let those tell who have had the portals of the 
tomb suddenly closed between them and the being they 
most loved on earth — who have sat at its threshold, as one 
shut out in a cold and lonely world, from whence all that 
was most lovely and loving had departed. 

But then the horrors of such a grave! — so frightful, so 
dishonored! There v/as nothing for memory to dwell on 
that could soothe the pang of separation — none of those 
tender, though melancholy circumstances, that endear the 
parting scene — nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed 
tears, sent, like the dews of heaven, to revive the heart in 
the parting hour of anguish. 

To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had 
incurred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attach- 
ment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could 
the sympathy and kind offices of friends have reached a 
spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she woulid have 
experienced no want of consolation, for the Irish are a peo- 
ple of quick and generous sensibilities. The most delicate 
and cherishing attentions were paid her, by families of 
wealth and distinction. She was led into society, and they 
tried all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate 
her grief, and wean her f I'om the tragical story of her lover. 
But it was all in vain. There are some strokes of calamity 
that scathe and scorch the soul — tliat penetrate to the vital 
seat of happiness — and blast it, never again to put forth 
bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent the haunts 
of pleasure, but she was as much alone there, as in the 
depths of solitude. She walked about in a sad reverie, ap- 
parently unconscious of the world around her. She carried 
with her an inward woe that mocked at all the blandishments 
of friendship, and "heeded not the song of the charmer, 
charm he never so wisely." 

The person who told me her story had seen her at a mas- 
querade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretched- 
ness more striking and painful than to meet it in sitch a 
scene. To find it wandering like a spectre, lonely and joy- 
less, where all around is gay — to see it dressed out in the 
trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and wo-begone, as 
if it had tried in vain to cheat the 2)oor heart into a moment- 



THE BROKEN HEART. 71 

ary forgetfulness of sorrow. After strolling through the 
splendid rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter ab- 
straction, she sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra, 
and looking about for some time with a vacant air, that 
showed her insensibility to the garish scene, she began, 
with the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to warble a little 
plaintive air. She had an exquisite voice; but on this 
occasion it was so simj^le, so touching — it breathed forth 
such a soul of wretchedness — that she drew a crowd, mute 
and silent, around her, and melted everyone into tears. 

The story of one so true and tender could not but excite 
great interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It 
completely won the heart of a brave oflicer, who paid his 
addresses to her, and thought that one so true to the dead 
could not but prove alfectionate to the living. She declined 
his attentions, for her thoughts were irrecoverably engrossed 
by the memory of her former lover. He, however, per- 
sisted in his suit. He solicited not her tenderness, but her 
esteem. He was assisted by her conviction of his worth, 
and her sense of her own destitute and dependent situation, 
for she was existing on the kindness of friends. In a 
word, he at length succeeded in gaining her hand, though 
with the solemn assurance that her heart was unalterably 
another's. 

He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of 
scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She 
was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to 
be a happy one; but nothing could cure the silent and de- 
vouring melancholy that had entered into her very soul. 
She wasted away in a slow, but hopeless decline, and at 
length sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken heart. 

It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish poet, 
composed the following lines: 

Slie is far from the land wliere her young hero sleeps. 

And lovers around her are sighing; 
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps. 

For her heart in his grave is lying. 

She sings the wild song of her dear :iative plains. 

Every note which he loved awaking — 
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains. 

How the heart of the minstrel is breaking I 



72 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

He liad lived for liis love — tor Lis country he died. 

They were all that to life had entwined him— 
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried. 

Nor long will his love stay behind him! 

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest. 
When they promise a glorious morrow; 

They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, 
From her own loved island of sorrow! 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKINQ, 7»3 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 

" If tliat severe doom of Synesins be true — 'it is a greater offenc^' 
to steal dead men's labors tliau their clothes,' — what shall becoim 
of most writers'/" 

Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. 

I HAVE often wondered at the extreme fecundity of tlic- 
press, and how it comes to pass that so many heads, on 
which Nature seems to iiave inflicted the curse of barren- 
ness, yet teem with vohiminous productions. As a man 
travels on, however, in the journey of life, his objects of 
wonder daily diminish, and he is continually finding out 
some very simple cause for some greater matter of marvel. 
Thus have I chanced, in my peregriiuitions about this great 
metropolis, to blunder u])on a scene which unfolded to me 
some of the mysteries of the book-making craft, and at 
once put an end to my astonishment. 

1 was one summer's day loitering through the great sa. 
loons of the British Museum, with that listlessness with 
which one is apt to saunter about a room in warm weather; 
sometimes lolling over the glass cases of minerals, some- 
times studying the hieroglyphics on an Egyptian mummy, 
and sometimes trying, with nearly equal success, to com- 
prehend the allegorical paintings on the lofty ceilings. 
While I was garJng about in this idle way, my attention 
was attracted to a distant floor, at the end of a suite of 
apartments. It was closed, but every now and then it 
would open, and some strange-favored being, generally 
clothed in black, would steal forth, and glide through the 
rooms, without noticing any of the surrounding objects. 
There was an air of mystery about this that piqued my 
languid curiosity, and I determined to attempt the passage 
of that strait, and to explore the unknown regions that 
lay beyond. The door yielded to my hand, with all that 
facility with which the portals of enchanted castles yield to 
the adventurous knight-errant, i found myself in a spa- 



74 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

cioiis chamber, siirroinided with grout cases of venerable 
books. Above the cases, and just under the cornice, were 
arranged a great number of black-looking portraits of an- 
cient authors. About the room were })laced long tables, 
with stands for reading and writing, at which sat rnan}^ 
pale, cadaverous personages, poring intently over dusty vol- 
umes, runiniaging among mouldy numuscripts, and taking 
copious notes of their contents. The most husiied stillness 
reigned through this mysterious apartment, excepting that 
you might hear the racing of pens over sheets of paper, or, 
occasioiuilly, the dee}") sigh of one of these sages, as he 
shifted his position to turn over the page of an old folio; 
doubtless arising from that hollowness and flatulencjy inci- 
dent to learned research. 

Now and then one of these personages would write some- 
thing on a small slip of })aper, and ring a bell, whereupon 
a familiar would appear, take the paper in profound 
silence, glide out of the room, and return shortly loaded 
with poaulerous tomes, upon which the other would fall, 
tooth and nail, with famished voracity. 1 had no longer a 
doubt that J. had happened upon a body of magi, deeply 
engaged in the study of occult sciences. The scene re- 
minded me of an old Arabian tale of a pliilosopher, who 
was shut up in an enchanted library, in the bosom of a 
mountain, that opened only once a year; where he made 
the spirits of the place obey his commands, and bi'ing him 
books of all kinds of dark knowledge, so that at the end of 
the year, when the magic portal once more swung open on 
its hinges, he issued forth so versed in forbidden lore as to 
be able to soar above the heads of the multitude, and to 
control the powers of Nature. 

My curiosity beiug now fully aroused, I whispered to one 
of the familiars, as he was about to leave the room, and 
begged an interpretation of the strange scene before me. 
A few words were sufficient for the purpose: — I found that 
these mysterious personages, whom 1 had mistaken for 
magi, were principally authors, and were in the very act of 
manufacturing books. I was, in fact, in the reading-room 
of the great British Library, an immense collection of vol- 
umes of all ages and languages, many of which are now 
forgotten, and most of whicli are seldom read. To thcpe 
sequestered pools of obsolete literature, therefore, do many 



THE A R T OF BOOK-MA KING. 75 

modern authors repair, and draw buckets full of classic 
lure or ''pure English, uiulefiled," wherewith to swell their 
own scanty rills of thought. 

lieing now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a 
corner, and watched tlie process of this book manufactory. 
I noticed one lean, bilious-looking wight, who sought none 
but the most worm-eaten volumes, printed in bhick-letter. 
lie was evidently constructing some work of profound eru- 
dition, that would be purchased by every man who wished 
to be thought learned, placed upon a conspicuous shelf of 
his library, or laid open upon his table — but never read. 
I observed him, now and then, draw a large fragment of 
biscuit out of his pocket, and gnaw; whether it was his 
dinner, or whether he was endeavoring to keep off that ex- 
haustion of the stomacli produced by much pondering 
over dry works, I leave to harder students than myself to 
determine. 

There was one dapper little gentleman in bright-colored 
clothes, with a chirping, gossiping expression of counte- 
nance, who had all the appearance of an author on good 
terms witli his bookseller. After considering him attent- 
ively, I recognized in him a diligent getter-up of miscella- 
neous works, which bustled off well with the trade. I was 
curious to see how he manufactured his wares. He made 
more show and stir of business than any of the others; 
dipping into various books, fluttering over the leaves of 
manuscripts, taking a morsel out of one, a morsel out of 
another, "line upon line, precept upon precept, here a 
little and there a little." Tlie contents of his book seemed 
to be as heterogeneous as those of the witches' caldron in 
Macbeth. It was here a finger and there a thumb, toe of 
frog and blind worm's sting, with his own gossip poured 
in like "'baboon's blood," to make the medley "slab and 
good." 

After ail, thought I, may not this pilfering disposition be 
implanted in anthers for wise purposes? may it not be the 
way in which Providence has taken care that the seeds of 
knowledge and wisdom shall be preserved from age to age, 
in spite of the inevitable decay of the works in which they 
were first produced? We see that Nature has wisely, though 
whimsically, provided for the conveyance of seeds from 
clime to clime, in the maws of certain birds; so that ani- 



76 THE SKETCH-BOOK, 

mals, which, in themselves, are little better than carrion, 
and apparently the lawless plunderers of the orchard and 
the cornfield, are, in fact, Nature's carriers to disperse and 
perpetuate her blessings. In like manner, the beauties and 
fine thoughts of ancient and obsolete writers are caught up 
by these flights of predatory authors, and cast forth, again 
to flourish and bear fruit in a remote and distant tract of 
time. Many of their works, also, undergo a kind of me- 
tempsychosis, and spring up under new forms. What was 
formerly a ponderous history, revives in the shape of a ro- 
mance — an old legend changes into a modern play — and a 
sober philosophical treatise furnishes the body for a whole 
series of bouncing and sparkling essays. Thus it is in the 
clearing of our American woodlands; where we burn down 
a forest of stately pines, a progeny of dwarf oaks start up 
in their place; and we never see the prostrate trunk of a 
tree, mouldering into soil, but it gives birth to a whole 
tribe of fungi. 

Let us not, then, lament over the decay and oblivimi into 
which ancient writers descend; they do not submit to the 
great law of Nature, which declares that all sublunary 
shapes of matter shall be limited in their duration, but 
which decrees, also, that their elements shall never perish. 
Generation after generation, both in animal and vegetable 
life, passes away, but the vital principle is transmitted to 
posterity, and the species continue to flourish. Thus, also, 
do authors beget authors, and having produced a numerous 
progeny, in a good old age they sleep with their fathers; 
that is to say, with the authors who preceded them — and 
from whom they had stolen. 

Whilst I was indulging in these rambling fancies I had 
leaned my head against a pile of reverend folios. Whether 
it was owing to the soporific emanations from these Avorks; 
or to the profound quiet of the room; or to the lassitude 
arising from much wandering; or to an unlucky habit of 
napping at improper times and places, with which I am 
grievously afflicted, so it was, that I fell into a doze. Still, 
however, my imagination continued busy, and indeed the 
same scene remained before my mind's eye, only a little 
changed in some of the details. I dreamt that the cham- 
ber was still decorated with the portraits of ancient authors, 
but the number was increased. The long tables had dis- 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 77 

appeared, and in place of the sage magi, 1 beheld a ragged, 
threadbare throng, such as may be seen plying about tlic 
great repository of cast-oil' clothes, Monmouth street. 
Wiienever they seized u])on a book, by one of those incon- 
gruities common to dreams, uiethought it turned into a 
garment of foreign or antique fashion, with which they 
proceeded to equip themselves. I noticed, however, that 
no one pretended to clothe liimself from any particular 
suit, but took a sleeve from one, a cape from another, a 
skirt from a third, thus decking himself out piecemeal, 
while some of his original rags would j^eep out from among 
his borrowed finery. 

There was a portly, rosy, well-fed person, whom I ob- 
served ogling several mouldy polemical writers through an 
eye-glass, lie soon contrived to slip on the voluminous 
mantle of one of the old fathers, and having purloined the 
gray beard of another, endeavored to look exceedingly 
wise; but the smii'king commonplace of his countenance 
set at naught all the trappings of wisdom. One sickly- 
looking gentleman was busied endjroidering a very flimsy 
garment with gold thread drawn out of several old court- 
dresses of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Another had 
trimmed himself magnificently from an illuminated manu- 
script, had stuck a nosegay in his bosom, culled from 
" The Paradise of Dainty Devices," and having put Sir 
Philip Sidney's hat on one side of his head, strutted off 
with an exquisite air of vulgar elegance. A third, who was 
but of puny dimensions, had bolstered himself out bravely 
with the spoils from several obscure tracts of philosophy, so 
that he had a very imposing front, but he vvas lament- 
ably tattered in rear, and 1 perceived that he had patched 
his small-clothes with scraps of parchment from a Latin 
author. 

'I'here were some well-dressed gentlemen, it is true, who 
only helped themselves to a gem or so, which sparkled 
among their own onuunents, without eclipsing them. 
Some, too, seemed to contemplate the costumes of the old 
w3-iters, merely to imbibe their principles of taste, and to 
catch their air and spirit ; but I grieve to say that too 
many were apt to array themselves, from top to toe, in the 
patch-work manner I htive mentioned. I should not omit 
to speak of one genius, in drab breeches and gaiters, and 



78 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

an Arcadian hat, who had a violent propensity to the pas- 
toral, but whose rural wanderings had been confined to the 
classic haunts of Primrose Hill, and the solitudes of the 
Regent's Park. He had decked himself in Avreaths and 
ribbons from all the old pastoral poets, and hanging his 
head on one side, went about with a fantastical, lacka- 
daisical air, " babbling about green fields." But the per- 
souage that most struck my attention was a pragmatical 
old gentleman, in clerical robes, with a 'remarkably large 
and square, but bald head. He entered the room wheezing 
and puffing, elbowed his way through the throng, with a 
look of sturdy self-confidence, and having laid hands upon 
a thick Greek quarto, clapped it upon his he;id, and swept 
majestically away in a formidable frizzled wig. 

In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry suddenly 
resounded from every side of " thieves! thieves!" I looked, 
and lo! the portraits about the walls became animated! 
The old authors thrust out first a hand, then a shoulder, 
from the canvas, looked down curiously, for an instant, 
upon the motley throng, and then descended, with fury in 
their eyes, to claim their rifled property. The scene of 
scampering and hubbub that ensued baffles all desci'iption. 
The unhappy culprits endeavored in vain to escape M'ith 
their plunder. On one side might be seen half-a-dozen old 
monks, stripping a modern professor; on another, there 
was sad devastation carried into the ranks of modern dra- 
matic writers. Beaumont and Fletcher, side by side, raged 
round the field like Castor and Pollux, and sturdy Ben 
Jonson enacted more wonders than when a volunteer with 
the army in Flanders. As to the dapper little compiler of 
farragos, mentioned some time since, he had arrayed him- 
self in as many patches and colors as Harlequin, and there 
was as fierce a contention of claimants about him as about 
the dead body of Patroclus. I was grieved to see many 
men, whom I had been accustomed to look upon with awe 
and reverence, fain to steal off with scare a rag to cover 
their nakedness. Just then my eye was caught by the 
pragmatical old gentleman in the Greek grizzled wig, who 
was scrambling away in sore affright with half a score of 
authors in full cry after him. They were close upon his 
haunches; in a twinkling off went his wig; at every turn 
some strip of raiment was peeled away; until in a few mo- 



TEE ART OF BOOE-MAKING. 79 

ments, from his domineering pomp, he shrunk into a little 
pursy, ''chopp'd bald shot," and made his exit with only a 
few tags and rags fluttering at his back. 

There was something so ludicrous in the catastrope of 
this learned Theban, that 1 burst into an immoderate fit of 
laughter, which broke the whole illusion. The tumult and 
the scuffle were at an end. The chamber resumed its usual 
appearance. The old authors shrunk back into their 
picture-frames, and huiig in shadowy solemnity along the 
walls. lu short, I found myself wide awake in my corner, 
with the whole assemblage of bookworms gazing at me 
with astonishment. Nothing of the dream had been real 
but my burst of laughter, a sound never before heard in 
tliat grave sanctuary, and so abhorrent to the ears of 
wisdom as to electrify the fraternity. 

The librarian now stepped up to me, and demanded 
whether I had a card of admission. At first I did not 
comprehend him, but 1 soon found that the library was a 
kind of literary ''preserve," subject to game laws, and that 
no one must presume to hunt there without special license 
and permission. In a word, I stood convicted of being an 
arrant poacher, and was glad to make a precipitate retreat, 
lest I should have a whole pack of authors let loose upon 
me. 



80 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



A EOYAL POET. 

Though your body be confined 

And soft love a prisoner bound, 
Yet the beauty of your mind 

Neither check nor chain liath found. 
Look out nobly, then, and dare 
Even the fetters that you wear. 

Fletcher. 

On a soft sunny morning in the genial month of May, I 
made an excursion to Windsor Castle. It is a place full of 
storied and poetical associations. The very external aspect 
of the proud old pile is enough to inspire high thought. 
It rears its irregular walls and massive towers, like a mui-al 
crown around the brow of a lofty ridge, waves its royal 
banner in the clouds, and looks down with a lordly air 
upon the surrounding world. 

On this morning, the weather M'as of this voluptuous 
vernal kind which calls forth all the latent romance of a 
man's temperament, filling his mind with music, and dis- 
posing him to quote poetry and dream of beauty. In 
wandering through the magnificent saloons and long echo- 
ing galleries of the castle. I passed with indifference by 
whole rows of portraits of Avarriors and statesmen, but 
lingered in the chamber where hang the likenesses of the 
beauties that graced the gay court of Charles the Second; 
and as I gazed upon them, depicted with amorous half- 
dishevelled tresses^ and the sleepy eye of love, I blessed the 
pencil of 8ir Peter Lely, which had thus enabled me to 
bask in the reflected rays of beauty. In traversing also the 
" large green courts,'" with sunshine beaming on the gray 
walls and glancing along the velvet turf, my mind Avas en- 
grossed with the image of the tender, the gallant, but hap- 
less Surrey, and his account of his loiterings about them in 
his stripling days, when enamored of the Lady Geraldine — 

" With eyes cast up unto tlie ujaiden's tower, 
With easie sighs, such as men draw in love." 



A ROYAL POET. 81 

In this mood of mere poetical susceptibility, I visitep 
the ancient keep of the castle, where James the First of 
Scotland, the pride and theme of Scottish poets and his- 
torians, was for many years of his youth detained a prisoner 
of state. It is a large gray tower, that has stood the brunt 
of ages, and is still in good preservation. It stands on a 
mound which elevates it above the other parts of the 
castle, and a great flight of steps leads to the interior. In 
the armory, which is a Gothic hall, furnished with weapons 
of various kinds and ages, I was shown a coat of armor 
h;uiging against the wall, which I was told had once be- 
longed to James. From hence I was conducted up a stair- 
case to a suite of apartments of faded magnificence, hung 
with storied tapestry, which formed his prison, and the 
scene of that passionate and fanciful amour, which has 
woven into the web of his story the magical hues of poetry 
and fiction. 

The whole history of this amiable but unfortunate prince 
is highly romantic. At the tender age of eleven, he was 
sent from his home by his father, Eobert III., and destined 
for the French court, to be reared under the eye of the 
French monarch, secure from the treachery and danger 
that surrounded the roj^al house of Scotland. It was his 
mishap, in the course of his voyage, to fall into the hands 
of the English, and he was detained a prisoner by Henry 
IV., notwithstanding that a truce existed between the two 
countries. 

The intelligence of his capture, coming in the train of 
many sorrows and disasters, proved fatal to his unhappy 
father. 

'" The news," we are told, " was brought to him while at 
supper, and did so overwhelm him with grief, that he was 
almost ready to give up the ghost into the hands of the ser- 
vants that attended him. But being carried to his bed- 
fhamber, he abstained from all food, and in three days 
died of hunger and grief, at Kothesay." * 

James was detained in captivity about eighteen years; 
but, though deprived of personal liberty, he was treated 
with the respect due to his rank. Care was taken to in- 
struct him in all the branches of useful knowledge culti- 
vated at that period, and to give him those mental and per- 

* Buchanan. 



82 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

soiial accornp]ishu>ents deemed proper for a prince. Per- 
haps in this respect, his imprisonment was an advantage, 
as it enabled him to npply himself the more exclusively to 
his improvements, and quietly to imbibe that rich fund of 
knowledge, and to ehensh those elegant tastes, which have 
given such a lustre to his memory. The picture drawn of 
him in early life, by the (Scottish historians, is highly cap- 
tivating, and seems rather t)\e description of a hero of ro- 
mance, than of a chai'acter in real history. lie was well 
learnt, we are told, " to fight with the sword, to joust, to 
tournay, to wrestle, to sing and dance; he was an expert 
medicinor, right crafty in playing both of lute and harp, 
and sundry other instruments of music, and was expert in 
grammar, oratory, and poetry."* 

With this combination of manly and delicate accomplish- 
ments, fitting him to shine both in active and elegant life, 
and calculated to give him an intense relish for joyous ex- 
istence, it must have been a severe trial, in an age of bustle 
and chivalry, to pass the spring-time of his years in monot- 
onous captivity. It was the good fortune of James, how- 
ever, to be gifted with a powerful poetic fancy, and to be 
visited in his prison by the choicest inspirations of the 
muse. Some minds corrode, and grow inactive, under the 
loss of pei'sonal liberty; others grow morbid and irritable; 
but it is the nature of the poet to become tender and imag- 
inative in the loneliness of confinement. Ue banquets 
upon the honey of his own thoughts, and, like the captivn 
bird, pours forth his soul in melody. 

Have you not seen tlie niglitingale 

A ])i]grim coop'd into a cage, 
How doth slie chant her wonted tale, 

In that her lonely hermitage! 

Even there her charming melody doth prove 
That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove, f 

Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination that 
it is irrepressible, unconlinable; that when the real world is 
shut out, it can create a world for itself, and, with necro' 
niantic power, can conjure up glorious shapes and forms, 
and brilliant visions, to make solitude populous, and irradi- 
ate the gloom oL" tlie dimgeon. Such was the world of 

* Ballenden's translation of Hector Boyce. t Koger L'Estrange. 



A ROTAL POET. 83 

pomp and pageant that lived round Tasso in his dismal cell 

.•i.t Ferrara, when ho conceived the splendid scenes of his 
Jenisalerit; and we may conceive the "King's Qiiair,"* 
composed by James during \\\h captivity at Windsor, as an- 
other of those beautiful breakings forth of the soul from 
the restraint and gloom of the prison-house. 

The subject of his poem is his love for the Lady Jane 
Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, and a princess 
of the blood-royal of England, of whom he became enam- 
ored in the course of his captivity. \Vha,t gives it pecu- 
liar value, is, that it may be considered a transcript of the. 
royal bard's true feelings, and the story of hia real loves and 
fortunes. It is not often that sovereigns write poetry, or 
that poets deal in fact. It is gratifying to the pride of a 
common man to find a monarch thus suir.g, as it were, for 
admission into his closet, and seeking to win his favor by 
administering to his pleasures. It is a proof of the honest 
equality of intellectual competition, which strips otf all 
the trappings of factitious dignity, brings the candidate 
down to a level with his fellow-men, and obliges him 
to depend on his own native powers for distinction. 
It is curious, too, to get all the history of a monarch's 
heart, and to find the simple alfeclions of human na- 
ture throbbing under the ermine. But James had learnt 
to be a poet before he was a king; he was schooled in ad- 
versity, and reared in the company of his own thoughts. 
Monarchs have seldom time to parley with their hearts, or 
to meditate their minds into poetry; and had James been 
brought up amidst the adulation and gayety of a court, we 
should never, in all probability, have had such a poem as 
the Quair. 

I have been particularly interested by those parts of the 
poem which breathe his immediate thoughts concerning 
his situation, or which are connected with the apartment 
in the Tower. They have thus a personal and local charm, 
and are given with such circumstantial truth as to make 
the reader present with the captive in his prison, and the 
companion of his meditations. 

Such is the account which he gives of his weariness of 
spirit, and of the incident that first suggested the idea of 
writing the poem. It was the still niidvvatch of a clear 

* Quair, an old term for book. 



84 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

moonlight night; the stars, he says, were twinkling as the 
fire in the high vault of heaven, and "Cynthia ringing her 
golden locks in Aquarius" — he lay in bed wakel'ul and 
restless, and took a book to beguile the tedious hours. 
The book he chose was IJoetius' Consolations of Philoso- 
phy, a work j^opular among the writers of that day, and 
which had been translated by his great i)rototype Chaucer. 
From the high eulogium in which he indulges, it is evi- 
dent this was one of his favorite volumes while in prison; 
and indeed, it is an admirable text-book for meditation 
under adversity. It is the legacy of a noble and enduring 
spirit, purified by sorrow and suffering, bequeathing to its 
successors in calamity the maxims of sweet morality, and 
the trains of eloquent but simple reasoning, by wliich it 
was enabled to bear up against the various ills of life. It 
is a talisman which the unfortunate may treasure up in his 
bosom, or, like the good King James, lay upon his nightly 
pillow. 

After closing the volume he turns its contents, over in 
his mind, and gradually falls into a fit of musingDu the 
fickleness of fortune, the vicissitudes of his own life, and 
the evils that had overtaken him even in his tender youth. 
Suddenly he hears the bell ringing to matins, but its sound 
chiming in with his melancholy fancies, seems to him like 
a voice exhorting him to write his story. In the spirit of 
poetic errantry, he determines to comply with this inti- 
mation; he therefore takes pen in hand, makes with it a 
sign of the cross, to implore a benediction, and sallies forth 
into the fairy land of poetry. There is something ex- 
tremely fanciful in all this, and it is interesting, as furnish- 
ing a striking and beautiful instance of the simple manner 
in wliich whole trains of poetical thought are sometimes 
awakened, and literary enterprises suggested to the mind. 

In the course of his poem, he more than once bewails the 
peculiar hardness of his fate, thus doomed to lonely and 
inactive life, and shut up from the freedom and pleasure 
of the world, in which the meanest animal indulges unre- 
strained. There is a sweetness, however, in his very com- 
plaints; they are the lamentations of an amiable and social 
spirit, at being denied the indulgence of its kind and 
generous propensities; there is nothing in them harsh or 
exaggerated; they flow with a natural and touching pathos. 



A nOTAL POET. 85 

and are perhaps rendered more toiicliiiig by their .siiii])Io 
brevity. They contrast finely with those elaborate and 
iterated repinings which we soineiiiucs iiietit with in poetry, 
the elTnsions of morbid minds, sickcuung nnder miseries of 
their own creating, and venting their bitterness npon an 
unoll'ending world. James speaks of his privations with 
acute sensibility; but having mentioned them, })asses on, 
as if his maidy mind disdained to brood over unavoi(hibl(' 
calamities. When such a sj)irit breaks forth into com- 
plaint, however brief, we are aware how great must be the 
suti'ering that extorts the murmur. We sympathize with 
James, a romantic, active and accomplished prince, 
cut olf in the lustihood of youth from all the enter- 
prise, the 7ioble uses and vigorous delights of life, as 
we do with Milton, alive to all the beauties of nature and 
glories of art, when he breathes fortli brief but deei)-toned 
lamentations over his per^)etnaI blindness. 

Had iu)t James evinced a deficiency of poetic artifice, we 
might almost have suspected that these lowerings of gloomy 
reflection were meant as pi'c^parative to the brightest scene 
of his story, and to conti'ast with that effulgence of light 
and loveliness, that exhihirating accompaniment of bird, 
and song, and foliage, and flower, and all the revel of tlie 
year, with which he ushers in the lady of his heart. It is 
this scene in [)articular which throws all the magic of ro- 
numce about the old castle keep. Jle had risen, he says, 
at day-bi'cak, according to custom, to escape from the 
dreary meditations of ii, sleepless pillow. " Bewailing in 
his chamber thus alone," despairing of all joy ami remedy, 
"for, tired of thought, and wo-begone," he luul wanderc^d 
to the window to in(lulg(i the capf^ive's miserable solace of 
gazing wistfully u[)o\\ the world fi'om which he is excludecl. 
The window looked forth upon n small garden which hiy 
at the foot of the tower. It was a (piiet, sheltiiied spof^, 
adorned with arbors and green alleys, and protected from 
the passing ga/e by trees and hawthorn hedges. 

Now was tlicni imulo fast by ilw. tower's wall 

A frunlcn I'airo, tind in tlic corners set 
An arbour j^ieen witb wandis b)n^ and small 

Hailed about, and so wilb leiives bescit 
Was all tlie ])la(;e, and liawtboi'n liedges knet 

That lyf * was none, waikyng t\wn' I'orbye 

That miftlit within scarce any wij^ht espy«, 



86 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

So thick the brandies and the leves gi-ene, 
Beshaded all the alleys that there were, 

And midst of every arbour might be seen. 
The sharpe, grene, swete juniper, 

Growing so faire with branches here and there. 
That as it seemed to a lyf without. 
The boughs did spread the arbour all about. 

And on the small green twistis * set 

The lytel swete nyghtingales, and sung 

So loud and clere, the hymnis consecrate 
Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among. 

That all the garden and the wallis rung 
Ryght of their song — 

It was the month of May, when everything was in bloom, 
and he interprets the song of the nightingale into language 
of his enamored feeling : 

Worship all ye that lovers be this May; 

For of your bliss the kalends are begun, 
And sing with us, away, winter, away. 

Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun. 

As he gazes on the scene, and listens to the notes^nf the 
birds, he gradually lapses into one of those tender and un- 
detinable reveries which fill the youthful bosom in this de- 
licious season. He wonders what tliis love may be, of 
which he has so often read, and which tlius seems breathed 
forth in the quickening breath of May, and melting all na- 
ture into ecstasy and song. If it really be so great a felic- 
ity, and if it be a boon thus generally dispensed to the most 
insignificant of beings, why is he alone cut off from its en- 
joyments ? 

Oft would I think, Lord, what may this be 

That love is of such noble myght and kynde? 
Loving his folk, and such prosperitee, 
Is it of him, as we in books do find; 
May he oure hcrtes setten f and uubynd: 

Hath he upon oure hertes such maistrye? 
Or is all this but feynit fantasye? 

For giiT he be of so grete excellence 

That he of every wight hath care and charge. 

What have I gilt X to him, or done offence, 
That 1 am thral'd and birdis cro at large? 



* Twistis, small boughs or twigs. t Setten, incline. 

X out, what injury have I done, &c. 

Note.— The language of the quotations is generally modernized. 



A ROYAL POET. , 87 

In the midst of his luusiiig, as he casts his eyes aowu- 
ward, he beholds "the fairest and the freshest young 
floure " that ever he had seen. It is the hjvely Lady Jane, 
walking in the garden to enjoy the beauty of that " fresh 
May morrowe." Breaking thus suddenly upon his sight in 
a moment of loneliness and excited susceptibility, she at 
once captivates the fancy of the romantic prince, and be- 
comes the object of his wandering wishes, the sovereign of 
his ideal world. 

There is in this charming scene an evident resemblance 
to the early part of Chaucer's Knight's Tale, where Pala- 
mou and Arcite fall in love with Emilia, whom they see 
walking in the garden of their prison. Perhaps the simi- 
larity of the actual fact to the incident which he had read 
in Chaucer may have induced James to dwell on it in his 
poem. His description of the Lady Jane is given in the 
picturesque and minute manner of his master, and being, 
doubtless, taken from the life, is a perfect portrait of a 
beauty of that day. He dwells with the fondness of a lover 
on every article, of her apparel, from the net of pearl, 
sj)lendent with emeralds and sapphires, that confined her 
golden hair, even to the " goodly chaine of small or- 
feverye"* about her neck, whereby there hung a ruby in 
shape of a heart, that seemed, he says, like a spark of fire 
burning upon her white bosom. Her dress of white tissue 
was looped up, to enable her to walk with more freedom. 
She was accompanied by two female attendants, and about 
her sported a little hound decorated with bells, probably the 
small Italian hound, of exquisite symmetry, which was a 
parlor favorite and pet among the fashionable dames of 
ancient times. James closes his description by a burst of 
general eulogium: 

In her was youth, beauty with humble port, 

Bountee, richesse, and womanly feature, 
God better knows than my pen can reiDort, 

Wisdom, largesse.f estate,:}: and cunning § sure. 

In every point so guided her measure, 

In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance, 
That nature might no more her child advance. 

* Wrousrht gold. t Largesse, bounty. 

% Estate, dignity. % Cunning, discretion. 



88 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

The departure of the Laily Jaiie froiii the garden putsau 
end to tliis transient riot of the heart. Witli her departs 
the amorous ilhision that liad shed a temponiry charm over 
the scene of his captivity, and lie rehipscs into a loneliness, 
now rendered tenfold more intolerable by this passing 
beam of unattainable beauty. Through the long and 
weary day he repines at his unhappy lot, and when evening 
approaches and Pha3bus, as he beautifully expresses it, had 
*' bad farewell to every leaf and flower," he still lingers at 
the window, and laying his head upon the cold stone, gives 
vent to a mingled How of love and sorrow, until gradually 
lulled by the mute melanclioly of the twilight hour, he 
lapses, "'half sleeping, half swoon," into a vision, which 
occupies the remainder of the poem, and in which is alle- 
gorically shadowed out the history of his passion. 

When he wakes from his trance, he rises from his stony 
pillow, and pacing his apartment full of dreary reflections, 
questions his spirit whither it has been wandering; whether, 
indeed, all that has passed before his dreaming fancy has 
been conjured up by preceding circumstances, or Avhether 
it is a vision intended to comfort and assure him in his 
despondency. If the latter, he prays that some token may 
be sent to confirm the promise of happier days, given him 
in his slumbers. 

Suddenly a turtle-dove of the purest Avhiteness comes 
flying in at the window, and alights upon his hand, bear- 
ing in her bill a branch of red gilliflower, on the leaves of 
which is written in letters of gold the following sentence: 



Awake! awake! I bring, lover, I bring 
The uewis glad, tliat blissful is and sure. 

Of tliy comfort; now laugh, and play, and sing. 
For in the heaven decretit is thy cure. 

He receives the branch with mingled hope and dread; 
reads it with rapture, and this he says was the first token 
of his succeeding happine&s. Whether this is a mere })oetic 
fiction, or whether the Lady Jane did actually send him a 
token of her favor in this ronumtic way, remains to be de- 
termined according to thi^ fate or fancy of the reader, lie 
concludes his poem by intimating that the pi'oniise conveyed 
in the vision aud by the llower is fulfilled by his being re- 



A ROYAL POET. 89 

stored to liberty, iiiid made liii})|>y in tliu possession oi' the 
sovereigu of liis heart. 

Such is llic [)oetical account given by James of liis lovo 
adv(!nture;4 in Windsor Castle. How much of it is absohite 
fact, and how mnch the embellisliment of fancy, it is frnit- 
less to conjecture; do not, however, let us always consider 
whatever is romantic as incompatible with real life, but let 
us sometimes take a poet at his word. I have noticed 
merely such parts of the poem as were immediately con- 
nected witli the tower, and have passed over a large part 
whicii was in the allegorical vein, so much cultivated in 
that day. The language of course is quaint and anticpiated, 
so that the beauty of many of its golden phrases will scarcely 
be perceived at the present day, but it is impossible not to 
be charmed with the genuine sentiment, the delightful 
artlessness and urbanity, which prevail throughout it. The 
descriptions of Nature, too, with which it is embellished, 
are given with a truth, a discrimination, and a freshness, 
worthy of a most cultivated period of the arts. 

As an amatory poem, it is edifying, in tiiese days of 
coarser thinking, to notice the nature, I'ofinement, and ex- 
quisite delicacy which pervade it, banishing every gross 
thought, or immodest expression, and presenting female 
loveliness clothed in all its chivalrous attributes of almost 
supernatural purity and grace. 

James nourished nearly about the time of Chaucer and 
Gower, and was evidently an admirer and studier of their 
writings. Indeed, in one of his stanzas he acknowledges 
them as his masters, and in some parts of his poem we find 
traces of similarity to their productions, more especially to 
those of Chaucer. There are always, however, general feat- 
ures of resemblance in the works of contemporary authors, 
which are not so much borrowed from each other as from 
the times. Writers, like bees, toll their sweets in the wide 
world; they incorporate with their own conceptions the 
anecdotes and thoughts which are current in society, and 
thus each generation has some features in common, char- 
acteristic of the age in whicli it lives. James in fact be- 
longs to one of the most brilliant eras of our literary history, 
and establishes the claim of his countiy to a i)articipation 
in its primitive honors. Whilst a small cluster of English 
writers are constantly cited as the^ fathers of our verse, the 



BO THE SKETCH-BOOR. 

name of their groat Scottish compeer is apt to be passed 
over in silence; but he is evidently worthy of being en- 
rolled ill that little constellation of remote, but never-failing 
himinaries, who shine in the highest firmament of literature, 
and who, like morning stars, sang together at the bright 
dawning of British poesy. 

Such of my readers as may not be familiar with Scottish 
history (though the manner in which it has of late been 
woven with captivating fiction has made it a universal 
study), may be curious to learn something of the subse- 
quent history of James, and the fortunes of his love. His 
passion for the Lady Jane, as it was the solace of his cap- 
tivity, so it facilitated his release, it being imagined by the 
Court that a connection with the blood-royal of England 
would attach him to its own interests. He was ultimately 
restored to his liberty and crown, having previously es- 
poused the Lady Jane, who accompanied him to Scotland, 
and made him a most tender and devoted wife. 

He found his kingdom in great confusion, the feudal 
chieftains having taken advantage of the troubles an4 ir- 
regularities of a long interregnum to strengthen themselves 
in their possessions, and place themselves above the power 
of the laws. James sought to found the basis of his power 
in the affections of his people. He attached the lower or- 
ders to him by the reformation of abuses, the temperate 
and equable administration of justice, the encouragement 
of the arts of peace, and the promotion of everything that 
could diffuse comfort, competency, and innocent enjoy- 
ment, tin-ough the humblest ranks of society. He mingled 
occasionally among the common people in disguise; visited 
their firesides; entered into their cares, their jiursuits, and 
their amusements; informed himself of the mechanical 
arts, and how they could best bo patronized and improved; 
and was thus an all-pervading spirit, watching with a be- 
nevolent eye over the meanest of his subjects. Having in 
this generous manner made himself strong in the hearts of 
the common people, he turned himself to curb the power 
of the factious nobility; to strip them of those dangerous 
immunities which they had usurped; to punish such as had 
been guilty of flagrant offences; and to bring the whole 
into proper obedience to the croM'n. For some time they 
bore this with outward submission, but with secret impa- 



A ROYAL POET. 91 

tience and brooding resentment. A conspiracy was at 
length formed against his life, at the head of which was 
his own nncle, Robert Stewart, Earl of Athol, who, hemg 
too old himself for the perpetration of the deed of Lu'i-d, 
instigated his grandson. Sir Robert Stewart, together v.tch 
Sir Robert Graham, and others of less note, to commit liie 
deed. They broke into his bedchamber at the Dominican 
convent near Perth, where he was residing, and barbar- 
ously murdered him by oft-repeated wounds. His faithful 
queen, rushing to throw her tender body between him and 
the sword,' was twice wounded in the ineffectual attempt to 
shield him from the assassin; and it was not until she had 
been forcibly torn from his person that the murder was ac- 
complished. 

It was the recollection of this romantic tale of former 
times, and of the golden little poem which had its birth- 
place in this tower, that made me visit the old pile with 
more than common interest. The suit of armor hanging 
up in the hall, richly gilt and embellished, as if to figure in 
the tournay, brought the image of the gallant and roman- 
tic prince vividly before my imagination. I paced the 
deserted chambers where he had composed his poem ; I 
leaned upon the window, and endeavored to persuade myself 
it was the very one where he had been visited by his vision ; 
I looked out upon the spot where he had first seen Lady 
Jane. It was the same genial and joyous month : the birds 
were again vying with each other in strains ot liquid mel- 
ody : everything was bursting into vegetation, and budding 
forth the tender pro-mise of the year. Time, which delights 
to obliterate the sterner memorials of human pride, seems to 
have passed lightly over this lit':le scene of poetry and love, 
and to have withheld his desolar,.!ig hand. Several centuries 
have gone by, yet the garden still flourishes at the foot of 
the tower. It occupies what \.us once the moat of the 
keep, and though some parts have been sejDarated by divid- 
ing walls, yet others have still their arbors and shaded walks, 
as in the days of James ; and the whole is sheltered, bloom- 
ing, and retired. There is a charm about the spot that has 
been printed by the footsteps of departed beaut;y, and con- 
secrated by the inspirations of the poet, which is height- 
ened, rather than impaired, by the lapse of ages. It is, 
indeed, the gift of poei-ry to hallow every place in which it 



92 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

moves ; to breathe round nature an odor more exquisite 
than the perfume of the rose, and to shed over it a tint 
more magical than the blush of morning. 

Others may dwell on the illustrious deeds of James as a 
warrior and a legislator ; but I have delighted to view him 
merely as the companion of his fellow-men, the benefactor 
of the human heart, stooping from his high estate to sow 
the sweet flowers of poetry and song in the paths of common 
life. He was the first to cultivate the vigorous and hardy 
plant of Scottish genius, which has since been prolific of 
the most wholesome and highly flavored fruit. He carried 
with him, into the sterner regions of the north, all the fer- 
tilizing arts of southern refinement. He did everytliing in 
his power to win his countrymen to the gay, the elegant, 
and gentle arts which soften and refine the character of a 
people, and wreathe a grace round the loftiness of a proud 
and warlike spirit. He wrote many poems, which, unfor- 
tunately for the fullness of his fame, are now lost to tlie 
world ; one, which is still preserved, called, " Christ's Kirk 
of the Green," shows how diligently he had made himself 
acquainted with the rustic sports and pastimes v/hich con- 
stitute such a source of kind and social feeling among the 
Scottish peasantry ; and with what simple and happy humor 
he could enter into their enjoyments. He contributed 
greatly to improve the national music ; and traces of his 
tender sentiment and elegant taste are said to exist in 
those witching airs, still piped among the wild mountains 
and lonely glens of Scotland. He has thus connected his 
image with whatever is most gracious and endearing in the 
national character ; he has embalmed his memory in song, 
and floated his name down to after-ages in the rich stro;i.in 
of Scottish melody. The recollection of these things was 
kindling at my heart, as I paced the silent scenes of Ids 
imprisonment. I have visited Vaucluse with as mucli enthu- 
siasm as a pilgrim would visit the shrine at Loretto ; bat 
I have never felt more poetical devotion then v/hen contem- 
plating the old tower and the little garden at Windsor, and 
musing over the romantic loves of the Lady Jane and the 
Royal Poet of Scotland. 



THE CO UNTR T CHURCH. 93 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 

A gentleman ! 
What, o' the woolpack? or the sngar-cLest? 
Or lists ol' velvet? which is't, pound, or yard, 
You vend your gentry by V 

Beggar's Bush. 

There are few places more favorable to the study of 
character than an English country church. I was once 
passing a few weeks at the seat of a friend, who resided in 
the vicinity of one, the appearance of which particularly 
struck my fancy. It was one of those rich morsels of quaint 
antiquity which give such a peculiar charm to English 
landscape. It stood in the midst of a country tilled with 
ancient families, and contained, within its cold and silent 
aioles, the congregated dust of many noble generations. 
The interior wails were encrusted with monuments of every 
age and style. The light streamed through windows 
dimmed witli armorial bearings, richly emblazoned in 
stained glass. In various ptirts of the church were tombs 
of knights, and high-born dames, of gorgeous workman- 
ship, with their effigies in colored marble. On every side, 
the eye was struck with some instance of aspiring mortality; 
some haughty memorial which human pride had erected 
over its kindred dust, in this temple of the most humble of 
all religious. 

The congregation was composed of the neighborind 
people of rank, who sat in pews sumptuously lined and 
cushioned, furnished with richly-gilded prayer-books, ang 
decorated with their arms upon the pew doors ; of the vil- 
lagers and peasantry, who filled the back seats, and a small 
gallery beside the organ ; and of the poor of the parish, 
who were ranged on benches in the aisles. 

The service was performed by a snuffling, well-fed vicar, 
who had a snug dwelling near the church. lie was a privi- 
leged guest at all the tables of the neighborhood, and had 



94 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

been the keenest fox-hunter in the country, until age and 

good living had disabled him from doing anytliing more 
than ride to see the lioimds tiirow olf, and make one at the 
liunting dinner. 

Under the ministry ol sncli a pastor, I found it impossi- 
ble to get into tlie train of thought suitable to the time and 
place ; so having, like many other feeble Christians, com- 
promised witli my conscience by laying the sin of my own 
delinquency at anotlier person's threshold, I occupied 
myself by making observations on my neighbors. 

I M'as as yet a stranger in England, and curious to notice 
the manners of its fashionabl* classes. 1 found, as usual, 
that there was the least pretension where there was the 
most acknowledged title to respect. I was particularly 
struck, for instance, with the family of a noblenum of high 
rank, consisting of several sons and daughters. Nothing 
could be more sim})le and unassuming tlian their a}ipear- 
ance. They generally came to church in the plainest 
equipage, and often on foot. The young ladies would stop 
and converse in the kiiulest manner with the pcasTrntry, 
caress the children, and listen to the stories of the humble 
cottagers. Their countenances were ojien and beautifully 
fair, with an expression of high retinement, but at the same 
time a frank cheerfulness, and engaging afl'ability. Their 
brothers were tall, and elegantly foi-med. They were 
dressed fashionably, but simply; with strict neatness and 
propriety, but without any mannerism or foppishness. 
Their whole demeanor was e;isyand natural, with that lofty 
grace, and noble frankness, which bespeak fi'ce-born souls 
that have never been chocked in their growth by feelings of 
inferiority. There is a healthl'nl haixliness about real dignity 
that never dreads contact and communion with others, 
however humble. It is only spurious pride that is morbid 
and sensitive, and shrinks from every touch. I was ])h>ased 
to see the manner in which they would converse with the 
peasantry about those rural concerns and field sports in 
which the gentlemen of the country so much delight. In 
these conversations, there was neither haughtiness on the 
one part, nor servility on the other ; and you were only 
reminded of the difference of rank by the habitual respect 
of the peasant. 

In contrast to these, was the family of a wealthy citizen, 



THE GO UNTR T CHUBCH. 95 

who had amassed a vast fortune, and having purchased the 

estate and mansion of a ruined nobleman in the neighbor- 
hood,, was endeavoring to assume all the style and dignity 
of a hereditary lord of the soil. The family always came 
to church en prince. They were rolled majestically along 
in a carriage emblazoned with arms. The crest glittered in 
silver radia.nce from every part of the harness where a crest 
could possibly be placed. A fat coachman in a three- 
cornered hat, richly laced, and a flaxen wig, curling close 
round his rosy face, was seated on the box, with a sleek 
Danish dog beside him. Two footmen in gorgeous liveries, 
with huge bouquets, and gold-headed canes, lolled behind. 
The carriage rose and sunk on its long springs with a 
peculiar stateliness of motion. The very horses champed 
their bits, arched their necks, and glanced their eyes more 
proudly than common horses ; either because they had got 
a little of the family feeling, or were reined up more 
tightly than ordiiuiry. 

I could not but admire the style with which this splendid 
pageant was brought up to the gate of the churchyard. 
There was avast effect produced at the turning of an angle 
of the wall ; a great smacking of the whip ; straining and 
scrambling of the horses ; glistening of harness, and flash- 
ing of wheels through gravel. This was the moment of 
triumph and vainglory to the coacliman. The horses were 
urged and checked, until they were fretted into a foam. 
They threw out their feet in a prancing trot, dashing about 
pebbles at every step. The crowd of villagers sauntering 
quietly to church, opened precipitately to the right and 
left, gaping in vacant admiration. On reaching the gate, 
the horses were pulled up with a suddenness that produced 
an immediate stop, and almost threw them on their 
haunches. 

There was an extraordinary hurry of the footmen to 
alight, open the door, pull down the steps, and prepare 
everything for the descent on earth of this august family. 
The old citizen first emerged his round red face from out 
the door, looking about him with the pompous air of a man 
accustomed to rule on "change, and shake the stock- 
market with a nod. His consort, a fine, fleshy, comfort- 
able dame, followed him. There seemed, 1 must confess, 
but little pride in her composition. She was the picture of 



96 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

broad, honest, vulgar enjoyment. Tlic world went well 
with lior; and she liked the woi-ld. Slie liad iine clolhcs, a 
fine house, a line carriage, line children; everything was 
fine about her; it was nothing but driving about and visit- 
ing and Teastiiig. Life was to her a peri)elual revel; it m'us 
one long (jord Mayor's day. 

Two daughters succeeded to this goodly cou})le. I^hey 
certainly were handsotue, but had a siniercilious air that 
ehilled aduiiration, and disposed the spectator to be critical. 
They were ultra-fash ionahles in dress, and, though no one 
could deny the richness oT their decorations, yet their ap- 
pro})riaiteness might he questioned amidst the sim})licity of 
a country churcii. They descended loftily from the car- 
riage, and moved up the line of peasantry with a step that 
seemed dainty of the soil it trod on. They cast an excur- 
sive glance around, that passed coldly over the burly faces 
of the peasantry, until they met the eyes of the nobleman's 
family, when their countenances immediately brightened 
into smiles, and they nuule the most profound and elegant 
curtseys, which were returned in a manner that showed 
they were but slight acqaintances. 

I nnist not forget the two sons of this aspiring citizen, 
who came to church in a dashing curricle, with outriders. 
They were arrayed in the extremity of the mode, with all 
that pedantry of dress which marks the man of question- 
able pretensions to style. They kept entirely by them- 
selves, eying every one askance that came near them, as if 
measuring his claims to respectability; yet they were with- 
out conversation, except the exchange of an occasional 
phrase. They even moved artificially, for their bodies, in 
compliance with the caprice of the day, had been disci- 
plined into the absence of all ease and freedom. Art had 
done everything to accomplish them as men of fashion, but 
uaiure had dcTiied them the nameless grace. They Avero 
vulgarly shaped, like num formed for the common j)urposes 
of life, and, had that air of supercilious assumption which is 
lUiver seen in the true gentleman. 

I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of 
these two families, because 1 considered them specimens of 
what is often to be met with in this country — the unpre- 
tending great, and the; arrogaut little. 1 have no respect 
for titled rank, unless it be accompanied by true nobility 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 97 

of soul ; but I have remarked, iu all countries where these 
artificial distinctions exist, that the very highest classes are 
always the most courteous and unassuming. Those who 
are well assured of their own standing are least apt to tres- 
pass on that of others; whereas, nothing is so offensive as 
the aspirings of vulgarity, which thinks to elevate itself by 
humiliating its neighbor. 

As I have brought these families into contrast, I must 
notice tlieir behavior in church. That of the nobleman's 
family was quiet, serious and attentive. Not that they ap- 
peared to have any fervor of devotion, but rather a respect 
for sacred things, and sacred places, inseparable from good- 
breeding. The others, on the contrary, were in a perpetual 
flutter and whisper; they betrayed a continual conscious- 
ness of finery, and the sorry ambition of being the won- 
ders of a rural congregation. 

The old gentleman was the only one really attentive to 
the service. He took the whole burden of family devotion 
upon himself; standing bolt upright, and uttering the re- 
sponses with a loud voice that might be heard all over the 
church. It was evident that he was one of those thorough 
church and king men who connect the idea of devotion 
and loyalty; who consider the Deity, somehow or other, 
of the government party, and religion "^ a very excellent 
sort of thing, that ought to be countenanced and kept up." 

When he joined so loudly in the service, it seemed more 
by way of example to the lower orders, to show them that 
though so great and wealthy, he was not above being reli- 
gious ; as I have seen a turtle- fed alderman swallow publicly 
a basin a charity soup, smacking his lips at every mouthful, 
and pronouncing it "excellent food for the poor." 

When the service was at an end, I was curious to witness 
the several exits of my groups. The young noblemen and 
their sisters, as the day was fine, preferred strolling home 
across the fields, chatting with the country people as they 
went. The others departed as they came, in grand parade. 
Again were the equipages wheeled up to the gate. There 
was again the smacking of whips, the clattering of hoofs, 
and the glittering of harness. The horses started off almost 
at a bound ; the villagers again hurried to right and left ; 
the wheels threw up a cloud of dust, and the aspiring family 
was wrapt out of sight in a whirlwind. 



9S THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 

Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires 
Honour and reverence evermore have raign'd. 

Marlowe's 2 amburlaine. 

During my residence in the country, I used frequently 
;0 attend at the old villa;^-e church. Its shadowy aisles, its 
moulderini;- monuments, its dark oaken panelling, all rever- 
end with tlie gloom of departed years, seemed to lit it for the 
haunt of solemn meditation. A Sunday, too, in the coun- 
try, is so holy in its repose, such a pensive quiet reigns over 
the face of Nature, that every restless passion is charmed 
down, and we feel all the natural religion of the soul gently 
springing up within us. — 

" Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky!" 

I cannot lay claim to the merit of being a devout man; 
but there are feelings that visit me in a country church, 
amid tho beautiful serenity of Nature, which I experience 
nowhero else; and if not a more religious, think I am a 
better man on Sunday than on any other day of tlie seven. 

But in this church I felt myself continually thrown back 
upon the world by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms 
around me. The only being that seemed thoroughly to 
feel the humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian was 
a poor decrepit old woman, bending under the weight of 
years and infirmities. She bore the traces of something- 
better than abject poverty. Tlie lingerings of decent pride 
were visible in her appearance. Her dress, though humble 
in the extreme, was scrupulously clean. Some trivial 
respect, too, had been awarded her, for she did not take 
her seat among the village poor, but sat alone on the 
steps of the altar. She seemed to have survived all love, 
all friendship, all society, and to have notbijig left her but 
the hopes of heaven. When I saw hei feebly rising and 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 99 

bending her aged form in prayer ; liabitually conning lier 
prayer-book, which her palsied and failing eyes could not 
permit her to read, but which she evidently knew by heart ; 
I felt persuaded that the faltering voice of that poor woman 
arose to heaven far before the responses of the clerk, the 
swell of the organ, or the chanting of the choir. 

I am fond of loitering about country churches; and this 
was so delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. 
It stood on a knoll, round which a small stream made a 
beautiful bend, and then wound its way through a long 
reach of soft meadow scenery. The church was surrounded 
by yew trees, which seemed almost coeval with itself. Its 
tall Gothic .spire shot up lightly from among them, with 
rooks and crows generally wheeling about it. I was seated 
there one still sunny morning, watching two laborers who 
were digging a grave. They had chosen one of the most 
remote and neglected corners of the churchyard, where, by 
the 'number of nameless graves around, it would appear 
that the indigent and friendless were huddled into the earth. 
I was told that the new-made grave was for the only son of 
a poor widow. While I was meditating on the distinctions 
of worldly rank, which extend thus down into the very dust, 
the toll of the bell announced the approacli of the funeral. 
They were the obsequies of poverty, with which pride had 
nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest materials, without 
pall or other covering, was borne by some of the villagers. 
The sexton walked before with an air of cold indifference. 
There were no mock mourners in the trappings of affected 
woe, but there was one real mourner who feebly tottered 
after the corpse. It was the aged mother of the deceased — 
the poor old woman whom I had seen seated on tiie steps of 
the altar. She was supported by an humble friend, who 
was endeavoring to comfort her. A few of the neighboring 
poor had Joined the train, and some children of the village 
were running hand in hand, now shouting with unthink- 
ing mirth, and now pausing to gaze, with childish curiosity, 
on the grief of the mourner. 

As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson 
issued from the church porch, arrayed in the surplice, with 
prayer-book in hand, and attended by the clerk. The ser- 
vice, however, was a mere act of charity. The deceased 
had been destitute, and the survivor was penniless. It was 



100 THE SERTGH-BOOK. 

ehuflled through, therol'oi-e, in form, but coldly and unfeel- 
ingly. The well-fed priest moved but a, few steps from the 
church door; his voice could scarcely be lietu'd at the grave ; 
and never did I hear the funeral service, that sublime and 
touching ceremony, turned into such a frigid mummery of 
words. 

I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the 
ground. On it were inscribed the name and age of the de- 
ceased — " George Somers, aged 26 years," The poor mother 
had been assisted to kneel down at the head of it. Jler with- 
ered hands were clasped, as if in prayer; but I could perceive, 
by a feeble rocking of thp body, and a convulsive motion 
of the lips, that she was gazing on the last relics of her son 
with the yearnings of a mother's heart. 

Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth. 
There was that bustling stir, which breaks so harshly on 
the feelings of grief and affection; directions given in the 
cold tones of business; the striking of spades into sand and 
gravel; which, at the grave of those we love, is of all sounds 
the most withering. The bustle around seemed to \yaken 
the mother from a wretched reverie. She raised her glazed 
eyes, and looked about with a faint wildness. As the men 
approached with cords to lower the coffin into the grave, slie 
wrung her hands, and broke into an agony of grief. The 
poor woman who attended her took her by the arm, endeav- 
oring to raise her from the earth and to whisper something 
like consolation — "Nay, now — nay, now — don't take it 
so sorely to heart." She could only shake her head, and 
wring her hands, as one not to be comforted. 

As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of 
the cords seemed to agonize her; but when, on some acci- 
dental obstruction, there was a jostling of the coffin, all the 
tenderness of the mother burst forth; as if any harm could 
come to him who was far beyond the roach of worldly suf- 
fering. 

I could see no more — my heart swelled into my throat^ 
my eyes filled with tears — I felt as if I were acting a barbar- 
ous part in standing by and gazing idly on this scene of 
maternal anguish. I Avandered to another part of the 
churchyard, where I remained until the funeral train had 
dispersed. 

When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the 



TEE WIDOW AND HER SON. ]01 

grave, leaving beliind her the remains of all that was dear 
to her on earth, and returning to silence and destitution, 
my lieart ached for her; What, thouglit I, are the dis- 
tresses of the rich ? Tliey have friends to sootlie — pleasures 
to beguile — a world to divert and dissipate their griefs. 
Wliat are the sorrows of the young ? Tlieir growing minds 
soon close above the wound — their elastic spirits soon rise 
beneath the pressure — their green and ductile affections soon 
twine around new objects, liut the sorrows of the poor, 
who have no outward aj)pliances to soothe — the sorrows of 
the aged, with whom life at best is but a wintry day, and 
who can look for no aftergrowth of joy — the sorrows of a 
widow, aged, solitary, destitute, mourning over an only 
son, the last solace of her years; — these are indeed sorrows 
which make us feel the impotency of consolation. 

It was some time before I left the churchyard. On my 
way homeward, I met with the woman who had acted as 
comforter; she was just returning from accompanying the 
mother to her lonely habitation, and I drew from her some 
particulars connected with the affecting scene 1 had wit- 
nessed. 

The parents of the deceased had resided in the village 
from childhood. I'hey had inhabited one of the neatest 
cottages, and by various rural occu])ations, and the assist- 
ance of a small garden, had supported themselves credita- 
bly, and comfortably, and led a happy and a blameless life. 
They had one son, who had grown up to be the staff and 
pride of their age — ''Oh, sir!" said the good woman, "he 
was such a comely lad, so sweet-tempered, so kind to every- 
one around him, so dutiful to his parents! It did one's 
heart good to see him of a Sunday, drest out in his best, so 
tall, so straight, so cheery, supporting his old mother to 
church — for she was always fonder of leaning on George's 
arm than on her good man's; and, poor soul, she might 
W(!ll be proud of him, for a finer lad there was not in the 
country round." 

Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of 
scarcity and agricultural hardship, to en^ucr into the serv- 
ice; of one of the small craft that plied on a neighboring 
j'iver. Ho had not been long in this employ, when he was 
entrapi^ed by a press-gang, and carried oil to sea. His 
parents received tidings of his seizure, but beyond that 



102 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

they could learn nothing. It was the loss of their main 
prop. The father, who was already infirm, grew heartless 
and melancholy, and sunk into his grave. The widow, left 
lonely in her age and feebleness, could no longer support 
herself, and came upon the parish. Still there was a kind 
of feeling towards her througliout the village, and a certain 
respect as being one of the oldest inhabitants. As no one 
applied for the cottage in which she had passed so many 
happy days, she was permitted to I'emain in it, where she 
lived solitary and almost helpless. The few wants of nature 
were chiefly supplied from the scanty jiroductions of her 
little garden, which the neighbors would now and then cul- 
tivate for her. It was but a few days before the time at 
which these circumstances were told me, that she was 
gathering some vegetables for her repast, when she heard 
the cottage-door which faced the garden suddenly opened. 
A stranger came out, and seemed to be looking eagerly and 
wildly around. He was dressed in seamen's clothes, was 
emaciated and ghastly pale, and bore the air of one broken 
by sickness and hardships. He saw her, and hastened 
towards her, but his steps were faint and faltering; lie" sank 
on his knees before her, and sobbed like a child. The poor 
woman gazed upon him with a vacant and wandering eye — 
" Oh my dear, dear mother! don't you know your son? your 
poor boy George?" It was, indeed, the wreck of her once 
noble lad; who, shattered by wounds, by sickness, and 
foreign imprisonment, had, at length, dragged his wasted 
limbs homeward, to repose among the scenes of his child- 
hood. 

I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a 
meeting, where sorrow and joy were so completely blended : 
still he was alive! — he was come home! — he might yet live 
to comfort and cherish her old age! Nature, however, was 
exhausted in him; and if anything had been wanting to 
finish the work of fate, the desolation of his native cottage 
would have been sufficient. He stretched himself on the 
pallet on which his widowed mother had passed many a 
sleepless night, and he never rose from it again. 

The villagers, when they heard that George Somers had 
returned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort and 
assistance that their humble i):cans afforded. He was too 
weak, however, to talk — he could only look his thanks. His 



THE WIDOW AND EEB SON. 103 

mother was his constant attendant, and he seemed unwiil- 
ing to be helped by any other hand. 

I'here is something in sickness that breaks down the 
pride of manhood; that softens the heart, and brings it back 
to the feelings of infancy. Who that has languished, even 
in advanced life, in sickness and despondency; who that 
has pined on a wear}^ bed in the neglect and loneliness of a 
foreign land; but has thought on the mother that " looked 
on his childhood," that smoothed his pillow, and adminis- 
tered to his helplessness? Oh! there is an enduring tender- 
ness in the love of a mother to a son, that transcends all 
other aifections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by 
selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by 
vvorthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice 
every comfort to his convenience; she will surrender every 
pleasure to his enjoyment; she will glory in his fame, and 
exult in his prosperity; — and, if misfortune overtake him, 
iie will be the dearer to her from misfortune; and if dis- 
grace settle upon his name, she will still love and cherish 
him in spite of his disgrace; and if all the world beside cast 
him off, she will be all the world to him. 

Poor George Somers had known what it was to be in 
sickness, and none to soothe — lonely and in prison, and 
none to visit him. He could not endure his mother from 
his sight; if she moved away, his eye would follow her. 
She would sit for hours by his bed, watching him as he 
slept. Sometimes he would start from a feverish dream, 
and look anxiously up until he saw her bending over 
him, when he would take her hand, lay it on his bosom, 
and fall asleep with the tranquility of a child. In this way 
he died. 

My first impulse, on hearing this humble tale of afflic- 
tion, was to visit the cottage of the mourner, and adminis- 
ter pecuniary assistance, and if possible, comfort. I found, 
however, on inquiry, that the good feelings of the villagers 
had prompted them to do everything that the case admit- 
ted ; and as the poor know best how to console each other's 
sorrows, I did not venture to intrude. 

The next Sunday I was at the village church; when, to 
my surprise, I saw the poor old woman tottering down the 
aisle to her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar. 

She had made an effort to put on something like mourn- 



104 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

iug ior her son; and nothing could be more touching than 
this struggle between pious affection and utter poverty: a 
black ribbon or so — a faded black handkerchief — and one 
or two more such humble attempts to express by outward 
signs that grief which passes show. — When I looked round 
upon the storied monuments, the stately hatchments, the 
cold marble pomp, with which grandeur mourned magnifi- 
cently over departed pride, and turned to this poor widow, 
bowed down by age and sorrow at the altar of her God, and 
offering up the prayers and praises of a pious, though a 
3rokeu heart, I felt that this living monument of real grief 
^vas worth them all. 

I related her story to some of the wealthy members of 
the congregation, and they were moved by it. They ex- 
erted themselves to render her situation more comfortable, 
and to lighten her afflictions. It was, however, but 
smoothing a few steps to the grave. In the course of a 
Sunday or two after, she was missed from her usual seat 
at church, and before I left the neighborhood, I heard, 
with a feeling of satisfaction, that she had quietly breatlied 
her last, and had gone to rejoin those she loved, in that 
world where sorrow is never known, and friends are ne^GP 
parted. 



THE BOARS HEAD TA VERN, EASl'CHEAP, 105 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 

A SIIAKSPEKIAN RESEARCH. 

* ' A tavern is tlie rendezvous, tlie exchange, the staple of good 
fellows. I have heard my great-grandfather tell, how his great-great- 
grandfather should say, that it was an old proverb when his great- 
grandfather was a child, that ' it was a good wind that blew a man 
to (he wine.' " 

Mother Bombie 

It is a pious custom, in some Catholic countries, to 
honor the memory of saints by votive lights burnt before 
their pictures. The popularity of a saint, therefore, may 
be known by the number of these offerings. One, per- 
haps, is left to moulder in tlie darkness of his little chapel; 
another may have a solitary lamp to throw its blinking rays 
athwart his ettigy; while the whole blaze of adoration is 
lavished at the shrine of some beatilied father of renown. 
The wealthy devotee brings his huge luminary of wax; the 
eager zealot, his seven-branched candlestick; and even the 
mendicant pilgrim is by no means satisfied that sufficient 
light is thrown upon the deceased, unless he hangs up his 
little lamp of smoking oil. The consequence is, in the 
eagerness to enlighten, they are often apt to obscure; and 
I have occasionally seen an unlucky saint almost smoked 
out of countenance by the officiousness of his followers. 

In like manner has it fared with the immortal Shaks- 
peare. Every writer considers it his bounden duty to light 
up some portion of his character or works, and to rescue 
some merit from oblivion. The commentor, opulent in 
words, produces vast tomes of dissertations; the common 
herd of editors send up mists of obscurity from their notes 
at the bottom of each page; and every casual scribbler 
brings his farthing rush-light of eulogy or research, tc 
swell the cloud of incense and of smoke. 

As I honor all established usages of my brethren of the 
quill, I thought it but proper to contribute my mite of 



106 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

homage to the memory of the illustrious bard. I was for 
some time, however, sorely puzzled in what way I should 
discharge this duty. I found myself anticipated in every 
attempt at a new reading; every doubtful line had been ex- 
plained a dozen different ways, and perplexed beyond the 
reach of elucidation; and as to fine passages, they had all 
been amply praised by previous admirers : nay, so com- 
pletely had the bard, of late, been overlarded with pane- 
gyric by a great German critic, that it was difficult now to 
find even a fault that had not been argued into a beauty. 

In this perplexity, I was one morning turning over his 
pages, when I casually opened upon the comic scenes of 
Henry IV., and was, in a moment, completely lost in the 
madcap revelry of the Boar's Head Tavern. So vividly and' 
naturally are these scenes of humor depicted, and with such 
force and consistency are the characters sustained, that they 
become mingled up in the mind with the facts and person- 
ages of real life. To few readers does it occur, that these 
are all ideal creations of a poet's brain, and that, in sober 
truth, no such knot of merry roisterers ever enlivenedjthe 
dull neighborhood of Eastcheap. 

For my part, I love to give myself up to the illusions of 
poetry, A hero of fiction that never existed, is just as 
valuable to me as a hero of history that existed a thousand 
years since: and, if I may be excused such an insensibility 
to the common ties of human nature, I would not give up 
fat Jack for half the great men of ancient chronicle. What 
have the heroes of yore done for me, or men like me? They 
have conquered countries of which I do not enjoy an acre-, 
or they have gained laurels of which I do not inherit a leaf; 
or they have furnished examples of hair-brained prowess, 
which I have neither the opportunity nor the inclination to 
follow. But old Jack Falstaff! — kind Jack Falstaff ! — sweet 
Jack Falstaff! has enlarged the boundaries of human enjoy- 
ment; he has added vast regions of wit and good-humor, in 
which the poorest man may revel; and has bequeathed a 
never-failing inheritance of jolly laughter, to make man- 
kind merrier and better to the latest posterity. 

A thought suddenly struck me: " I will make a pilgrim- 
age to Eastcheap,^' said I, closing the book, "and see if 
the old Boar's Head Tavern still exists. Who knows but I 
may light upon some legendary traces of Dame Quickly and 



THE BOAR'S BEAD TA VERN, BA8T0HEAP. 107 

her guests; at any rate, there will be a kindred pleasure, in 
treading the halls once vocal with their mirth, to that the 
toper enjoys in smelling to the empty cask, once filled with 
generous wine." 

The resolution was no sooner formed than put in execu- 
tion. I forbear to treat of the various adventures and 
wonders 1 encountered in my travels, of the haunted re- 
gions of Cock-lane; of the faded glories of Little Britain, 
and the parts adjacent; what perils I ran in Cateaton-street 
and Old Jewry; of the renowned Guildhall and its two 
stunted giants, the pride and wonder of the city, and the 
terror of all unlucky urchins; and how I visited London 
Stone, and struck my stafl: upon it, in imitation of that 
arch-rebel, Jake Cade. 

Let it suffice to say, that I at length arrived in merry 
Eastcheap, that ancient region of wit and wassail, where 
the very names of the streets relished of good cheer, as 
Pudding-lane bears testimony even at the present day. For 
Eastcheap, says old Stow, " was always famous for its con- 
vivial doings. The cookes cried hot ribbes of beef roasted, 
pies well baked, and other victuals; there was clattering of 
pewter pots, harpe, pipe, and sawtrie." Alas! how sadly is 
the scene changed since the roaring days of Falstaff and old 
Stow! The madcap roisterer has given place to the plod- 
ding tradesman; the clattering of pots and the sound of 
" harpe and sawtrie," to the din of carts and the accurst 
dinging of the dustman's bell; and no song is heard, save, 
haply, the strain of some syren from Billingsgate, chanting 
the eulogy of deceased mackerel. 

I sought in vain for the ancient abode of Dame Quickly. 
The only relict of it is a boar's head, carved in relief stone, 
which formerly served as the sign, but, at present, is built 
into the parting line of two houses which stand on the site 
of the renowned old tavern. 

For the history of this little empire of good fellowship, I 
was referred to a tallow-chandler's widow, opposite, who 
had been born and brought up on the spot, and was looked 
up to as the indisputable chronicler of the neighborhood. 
I found her seated in a little back parlor, the window of 
which looked out upon a yard about eight feet square, laid 
out as a flower-garden; while a glass door opposite afforded 
a distant peep of the street, through a vista of soap and 



108 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

tallow candles ; the two views, which comprised, iu all 
probability, hor prospects in life, and the little worM in 
which she had lived, and moved, and had her being, for the 
better part oi a centnry. 

To be versed in tlie history of Eastcheap, great and little, 
from London Stone even unto the Monument, v.'as, doubt- 
less, in her opinion, to be acquainted with the history of 
the universe. Yet, with all this, she possessed the simplic- 
ity of true wisdom, and that liberal, communicative disposi- 
tion, which I have generally remarked in intelligent old 
ladies knowing in the concerns of their neighborhood. 

Her information, however, did not extend far back into 
antiquity. She could throw no light upon the history of 
the Boar's Head, from the time that Dame Quickly espoused 
the valiant Pistol, until the great fire of Loudon, when it 
was unfortunately burnt down. It was soon rebuilt, and 
continued to tiourish under tlie old name and sign, until a 
dying landlord, struck with remorse for double scores, bad 
measures, and other iniquities which are incident to the 
sinful race of publicans, endeavored to make his peace with 
Heaven by bequeathing the tavern to St. Michael's church, 
Crooked-lane, toward the supporting of a cha})lain. For 
some time the vestry meetings were regularly held there ; 
but it was observed that the old Boar never held up his 
head under church government. He gradually declined, 
and finally gave his last gasp about thirty years since. 
The tavern was then turned into shops; but she informed 
me that a picture of it was still preserved in St. Michael's 
church, which stood just in the rear. To get a sight of 
this picture was now my determination; so, having informed 
myself of the abode of the sexton, I took my leave of the 
venerable chronicler of Eastcheap, my visit having doubt- 
less raised greatly her opinion of her legendary lore, and 
furnished an important incident in the history of her life. 

It cost me some difficulty, and much curious inquiry, to 
ferret out the humble hanger-on to the church. I had to 
explore Crooked-lane, and divers little alleys, and dark 
elbows, and dark passages, with which this old city is per- 
forated, like an ancient cheese, or a worm-eaten chest of 
drawers. At length I traced him to a corner of a small 
court, surrounded by loity houses, where the inhabitants 
enjoy about as much of the face of heaven as a community 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TA VERN, EA8TCHEAP. 109 

of frogs at the bottom of a well. The soxton was a meek, 
acquiescing little man, of a bowing, lowly habit; yet he had 
a pleasant twinkling in his eye, and if encouraged, would 
now and then venture a small pleasantry; such as a man 
of his low estate might venture to make in the company of 
liigh churchwardens, and other mighty men of the earth. 
I found him in company with the deputy organist, seated 
apart, like Milton's angels; discoursing, no doubt, on high 
doctrinal points, and settling the affairs of the church over 
a friendly pot of ale; for the lower classes of English sel- 
dom delil)erate on any weighty matter, without the assist- 
ance of a cool tankard to clear their understandings. I 
arrived at the moment when they had finished their ale and 
their argument, and were about to repair to the church to 
put it in order ; so, having made known my wishes, I 
received their gracious permission to accompany them. 

The church of St. Michael's, Crooked-lane, standing a 
short distance from Billingsgate, is enriched with the tombs 
of many fishmongers of renown; and as every profession has 
its galaxy of glory, and its constellation of great men, I 
presume tlie monument of a mighty fishmonger of the 
olden time is regarded with as much reverence, by succeed- 
ing generations of the craft, as poets feel on contemplating 
the tomb of Virgil, or soldiers the monument of a Marl- 
borough or Turenne. 

I cannot but turn aside, while thus speaking of illustrious 
men, to observe that St. Michael's, Crooked-lane, con- 
tains also the ashes of that doughty champion, William 
Walworth, Knight, who so manfully clove down the sturdy 
wight, Wat Tyler, in Smithfield; a hero worthy of hon- 
orable blazon, as almost the only Lord Mayor on recoi'd 
famous for deeds of arms; the sovereigns of Cockney being 
generally renowned as the most pacific of all potentates. * 

* The following; was the ancient inscription on the monument of this worth^' 
which, uniiappily, was destroyed in tlie yreat conflaMration: 
Ilerenndcr lyth a man of fame, 
William Walworth callyd by name. 
Pishmoiifjer he was in lyfftiine here, 
And twisc L(jr(l Maior, as in boolcs appeare; 
Who, with couratro stout and manly myght, 
Slew Jack Straw in Kynf4' Richard's sight. 
For which act done, and trew entent, 
The Kyng made him knyght incontinent ; 
And gave him armea, as here you see. 
To docliirc his fact ;;i;d chivaldrie: 
He left tills lytt' the year of our God 
Thirteen hondred fourscore and three odd. 



110 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Adjoining the clmrcli, iii a small cemetery, immediately 
under the back windows of what was once the Boar's Head, 
stands the tombstone of Kobert Preston, whilom drawer 
at the tavern. It is now nearly a century since this trusty 
drawer of good liquor closed his bustling career, and was 
thus quietly deposited within call of his customers. As I 
was clearing away the weeds from his epitaph, the little 
sexton drew me on one side with a mysterious air and in- 
formed me, in a low voice, that once upon a time, on a 
dark wintry night, when the wind was unruly, howling and 
whistling, banging about doors aud windows, and twirling 
weathercocks, so that the living were frightened out of 
their beds, and even the dead could not sleep quietly in 
their graves, the ghost of honest Preston, who happened to 
be airing itself in the churchyard, was attracted by the 
well-known call of " waiter," from the Boar's Head, and 
made its sudden appearance in the midst of a roaring club, 
just as the parish clerk was singing a stave from the "mirrie 
garland of Captain Death," to the discomfiture of sundry 
train-band captains, and the conversation of an infidel 
attorney, who became a zealous Christian on the spot, and 
was never known to twist the truth afterwards, except in 
the way of business. 

I beg it may be remembered, that I do not pledge myself 
for the authenticity of this anecdote; though it is well 
known that the churchyards and by-corners of this old 
metropolis are very much infested with perturbed spirits; 
and everyone must have heard of the Cock-lane ghost, and 
the apparition that guards the regalia in the Tower, which 
has frightened so many bold sentinels almost out of their 
wits. 

Be all this as it may, this Eobert Preston seems to have 
been a Avorthy successor to the nimble-tongued Francis, who 
attended upon the revels of Prince Hal ; to have been 
equally prompt with his "anon, anon, sir," and to have 
transcended his predecessor in honesty; for Falstaff, the 
veracity of whose taste no man will venture to impeach. 

An error in the foregoing inscription has been corrected by the venerable 
Stow: " Whereas," saith he, " it hath been far sjjread abroad by vulgar opinion, 
that the rebel smitten dov^'n so manfully by Sir William Wahvorth, the then 
worthy Lord Maior, was named Jack Straw, and not Wat Tyler, 1 thought 
good to recioncUe this rash conceived doubt by such testimony as I find in 
ancient and good records. The principal Itjaders, or captains, of the com- 
mons, were Wat Tyler, as the first man; the second was John, or Jack, Straw, 
&o.. «fcc,"— Stow's iondon. 



THE BOARS HEAD TAVERN, EASTCEEAP. m 

flatly accuses Francis of putting lime in bis sack; whereas, 
honest Preston's epitaph lauds him for the sobriety of his 
conduct, the soundness of his wine, and the fairness of his 
measure.* The worthy dignitaries of the church, how- 
ever, did not ajspear much captivated by the sober virtues 
of the tapster: the deputy organist, who had a moist look 
out of the eye, made some shrewd remark on the abstemi- 
ousness of a man brought up among full hogsheads; and 
the little sexton corroborated his opinion by a significant 
wink, and a dubious shake of the head. 

Thus far my researches, though they threw much light 
in the history of tapsters, fishmongers, and Lord Mayors, 
yet disappointed me in the great object of my quest, the 
picture of the Boar's Head Tavern. No such painting was 
to be found in the church of St. Michael's. " Marry and 
amen!" said I, "here endetli my research!" So 1 was 
giving the matter up, with the air of a baffled antiquary, 
when my friend the sexton, perceiving me to be curious 
in everything relative to the old tavern, offered to show me 
the choice vessels of the vestry, which had been handed 
down from remote times, when the parish meetings were 
held at the Boar's Head. These were deposited in the 
parish club-room, which had been transferred, on the de- 
cline of the ancient establishment, to a tavern in the 
neighborhood. 

A few steps brought us to the house, which stands No. 
13, Mile-lane, bearing the title of The Mason's Arms, and 
is kept by Master Edward Honeyball, the "bully-rock" of 
the establishment. It is one of those little taverns which 
abound in the heart of the city, and form the centre of 
gossip and intelligence of the neighborhood. We entered 
the bar-room, which was narrow and darkling; for ir 
these close lanes but few rays of reflected light are enabled 

* As this inscription is rife with excellent morality, I transcribe it for the ad- 
monition of delinquent tapsters. It is, no doubt, the production of some choica 
spirit, who once frequented the Boar's Head. 

Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise, 
Produced one sober son, and here he lies. 
Though rear'd among full hogsheads, he defied 
The charms of wine, and every one beside. 
O reader, if to justice thou 'rt inclined. 
Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind. 
He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots, 
Had sundry virtues that excused his faults. 
You that on Bacchus have the like dependence, 
Pray copy Bob, in measure and attenaanoe. 



112 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

to btruggle down to the inhabitants, whoso broad day is at 
best but a tolerable twilight. The room was partitioned 
into boxes, each containing a table spread with a clean 
white cloth, ready for dinner. This showed that the guests 
were of the good old stamp, and divided their day equally, 
for it was but just one o'clock. At tlie lower end of the 
room was a clear coal fire, before which a bi-east of lamb 
was roasting. A row of bright brass candlesticks and 
pewter mugs glistened along the mantelpiece, and an old- 
fashioned clock ticked in one corner. There was some- 
thing primitive in this medley of kitchen, parlor, and hall, 
that carried me back to earlier times, and ])]eased me. 
The place, indeed, was humble, but everything had that 
look of order and neatness which bespeaks the superintend- 
ence of a notable English housewife. A group of amphib- 
ious looking beings, who might be either fishermen or 
sailors, were regaling themselves in one of the boxes. As 
I was a visitor of rather high pretensions, I was ushered 
into a little misshapen back room, having at least nine 
corners. It was lighted by a sky-light, furnished ^with 
antiquated leathern chairs, and ornamented with the por- 
trait of a fat pig. It was evidently appropriated to par- 
ticular customers, and I found a shabby gentleman, in a 
red nose, and oil-cloth hat, seated in one corner, medi- 
tating on a half -empty pot of porter. 

The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, and with 
an air of profound importance imparted to her my errand. 
Dame Honey ball was a likely, plump, bustling little 
woman, and no bad substitute for that paragon of host- 
esses. Dame Quickly. She seemed delighted with an 
opportunity to oblige; and hurrying up stairs to the 
arciiives of her house, where the precious vessels of the 
parish club were deposited, she returned, smiling and 
curtseying with them in her hands. 

The first she presented me was a japanned iron tobacco- 
box, of gigantic size, out of which, I was told, the vestry 
had smoked at their stated meetings, since time immemo- 
rial; and which was never suffered to be profaned by vulgar 
hands, or used on common occasions. I received it with 
becoming reverence; but what was my delight, at beholding 
on its cover the identical painting of wlrioli I wiis in quest! 
There was displayed the outside of tlie Boar's Head Tavern, 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EA8TCHEAP. 113 

and before the door was to be seen the whole convivial 
group, at table, in full revel, pictured with that wonderful 
fidelity and force with which the portraits of renowned 
generals and commodores are illustrated on tobacco-boxes, 
for the benefit of posterity. Lest, however, there should 
be any mistake, the cunning limner had warily inscribed 
the names of Prince Hal and Falstalf on the bottoms of 
their chairs. 

On the inside of the cover was an inscription, nearly ob- 
literated, recording that this box was the gift of Sir Richard 
Gore, for the use of the vestry meetings at the Boar's Head 
Tavern, and that it was " repaired and beautified by liis 
successor, Mr. John Packard, 1767," Such is a faitliful 
description of this august and venerable relic, and I ques- 
tion whether the learned Scriblerius contemplated his 
Roman shield, or the Knights of the Round Table the long- 
sought sangreal, with more exultation. 

While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze. 
Dame Honeyball, who was higlily gratified by the interest 
it excited, put in my hands a drinking cup or goblet, which 
also belonged to the vestry, and was descended from the old 
Boar's Head. It bore the inscription of having been the 
gift of Francis Wythers, Knight, and was held, she told 
me, in exceeding great value, being considered very 
"antyke." This last opinion was strengthened by the 
shabby gentleman witli the rod nose, and oil-cloth hat, and 
whom I strongly suspected of being a lineal descendant 
from the valiant Bardolph. He suddenly aroused from his 
meditation on the pot of porter, and casting a knowing 
look at the goblet, exclaimed, "Ay ay, the head don't ache 
now that made that there article." 

The great importance attached to this memento of ancient 
revelry, by modern churchwardens, at first puzzled me ; but 
tliere is nothing sharpens the apprehension so much as anti- 
quarian research ; for I immediately perceived that this 
could be no other tlian the identical "parcel-gilt goblet" 
on which Falstaif made his loving but faithless vow to 
Dame Quickly, and which would, of course, be treasured 
up with care among the regalia of her domains, as a testi- 
mony of that solemn contract.* 

* Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in the Dolpliiu 
Chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal Are, on Wednesday of Whitsuu- 



J 14 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history how the 
goblet had been handed down from generation to genera- 
tion. She also entertained me with many particulars con- 
cerning the worthy vestrymen wiio have seated themselves 
thus quietly on the stools of the ancient roysterers of East- 
cheap, and, like so many commentators, uttered clouds of 
smoke in honor of Shakspeare. These I forbear to relate, 
lest my readers should not be as curious in these matters 
as myself. Suffice it to say, the neighbors, one and all, 
about Eastcheap, believe that Falstatf and his merry crew 
actually lived and revelled there. Nay, there are several 
legendary anecdotes concerning him still extant among 
the oldest frequenters of the Mason's Arms, which they 
give as transmitted down from their forefathers; and Mr. 
M'Kash, an Irish hair-dresser, whose shop stands on the 
site of the old Boar's Head, has several dry jokes of Fat 
Jack's, not laid down in the books, with which he makes 
his customers ready to die of laughter. 

I now turned to my friend the sexton to make some 
farther inquiries, but 1 found him sunk in pensive medita- 
tion. His head had declined a little on one side; a deep 
sigh heaved from the very bottom of his stomach, and, 
though I could not see a tear trembling in his eye, yet a 
moisture was evidently stealing from a corner of his mouth. 
I followed the direction of his eye through the door which 
stood open, and found it fixed wistfully on the savory 
breast of lamb, roasting in dripping richness before the 
fire. 

I now called to mind, that in the eagerness of my recon- 
dite investigation I was keeping the poor man from his 
dinner. My bowels yearned with sympathy, and jDutting in 
his hand a small token of my gratitude and good-will, I 
departed with a hearty benediction on him. Dame Honey- 
ball, and the parish chib of Crooked-lane — not forgetting 
my shabby, but sententious friend, in the oil-cloth hat and 
copper nose. 

Thus I have given a "tedious brief" account of this in- 
teresting research; for which, if it prove too short and un- 
satisfactory, I can only plead my inexperience in this 

week, when the Prince broke thy head for likenuig his father to a slnj^iujf man 
of Windsor; thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to 
marry me, and make me my lady, thy wife. Canst thou deny it ?— 

Hmry IV. pa7-t 2. 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TA VERN, EASTCHEAP. 115 

branch of literature, so deservedly popular at the present 
day. I am aware that a more skillful illustrator of the im- 
mortal bard would have swelled the materials I have touched 
upon to a good merchantable bulk, comprising the biog- 
raphies of William Walworth, Jack Straw, and Kobert 
Preston; some notice of the eminent fishmongers of St. 
Michael's; the history of Eastcheap, great and little; pri* 
vate anecdotes of Dame Honeyball and her pretty daughter, 
whom I have not even mentioned: to say nothing of *\ 
damsel tending the breast of lamb (and whom, by the 
way, I remarked to be a comely lass with a neat foot and 
ankle); the whole enlivened by the riots of Wat Tyler, 
and illuminated by the great fire of London. 

All this I leave as a rich mine to be worked by future 
commentators; nor do I despair of seeing the tobacco-box, 
and the "parcel-gilt goblet," wliicli I have thus brought to 
light, the subjects of future engravings, and almost as fruit- 
ful of voluminous dissertations and disputes as the shield 
of Achilles, or the far-famed Portland vase. 



IIQ THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 

A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

1 know tliiit all beneath tlie uioon decays. 
And what by mortals in this world is brought, 
In time's great periods shall return to nought. 

I know that all tlu> nuises" heavt^nly layes, 
"With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought. 
As idle sounds of few or none are sought. 

That tliere is nothing lighter than mere praise. 

DUUMMONI) OF liAWTIfOllNDEN. 

There are certain half-dreaming moods of mind, in 
wliich we naturally steal away from noise and glare, and 
scadv some quiet haunt, where we may iiululge our reveries, 
and build up our air castles undisturbed. Jn siudi alhood, 
1 was loitering about the old gray cloisters of Westminster 
Abbey, enjoying the luxury of wandering thought which 
one is apt to dignify with the name of reiiection, wiieii 
suddenly an irruption of nuidcap boys from Westminster 
school, playing at foot-ball, broke in upon the monastic 
stillness of the place, nuiking the vaulted passages and 
moiddering tombs echo with tlioir merriment. I sought to 
take refuge from their noise by ])enet rating still deei)erinto 
the solitudes of the pile, and ai)j)lied to oiu^ of the vergers 
for admission to the library, lie coiulucted me through ii 
portal rich with the crumbling scul])ture of former ages, 
which opened upon a gloomy passage leading to the Cluip- 
ter-house, and the chamber in which Doomsday Book is 
deposited. Just within the passage is a small door on the 
left. To this the verger applied a. key; it was double 
locked, and opened with some dilficulty, as if seldom used. 
We now ascended a dark narrow staircase, and passing 
through a second door, entered the library. 

I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof supported 
by massive joists of old English oak. It was soberly lighted 
by a row of Gothic windows at a considerable height from 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERA TURE. 1 J 7 

the Hoor, and which apparently opened upon tlie roofs of 
the cloisters. An {uu^iont picture of some reverend digni- 
tary of the church in his robes \nn\^ over the lire-place. 
Around the luill tuid in a sniall gallery were the books, 
jirranged in carved oaken cases. They consisted princi- 
pally of old polemical writers, and were much more worn 
by time than use, In the (centre of the library was a soli- 
tary tiiblo, with two or tiiree books on it, an inkstand with- 
out ink, and a few ])ens parched by long disuse. The 
place seemed fitted for (piiet study aiul profound medita- 
tion. It was bui'ied deep among the massive walls of the 
abbey, and shut u[) from the tumult of the world. I could 
only hear now and then the siiouts of the schoolboys faintly 
swelling from the cloisters, and the souiul of a bell tolling 
for prayers that echoed soberly along the rooCs of the 
abbey. l\y degrees the shouts of merriment grew fainter 
aiul faiider, and at length died away. 'V\\ii bell ceased to 
toll, and a profound silence reigned through the dusky 
hall. 

I had taken down a little thick quarto, (niriously houiul 
in parchment, with brass clas[)s, aiul seated myself at the 
table in a venerable elbow chair. Instead of reailing, how- 
ever, 1 was beguiled by the solemn monastic air and lifeless 
quiet of the jjlace, into a train of musing. As J looked 
around upon the old volumes in their nu)ul(ku-ing covers, 
thus ranged on the shelves, atul ai)i)arently never (listurbed 
in their repose, 1 coukl not but consiiler the library a kind 
of literary catacomb, where authors, like mummies, are 
piously entombed, and left to blacken and moulder in 
dusty oblivion. 

Mow much, thought 1, has each of these volumes, now 
thrust aside with such indifference, cost some aching head 
— how many weary (iays! how many sleepless nights! How 
iKive their authors buried themselves in the solitude of cells 
aiul cloisters; shut thems«>lves uj) from the face of man, and 
the still more blessed face of luiture; and devoted them- 
selves to painful research and intense reflei^tion! And all 
for what? to oc(;upy an imh of dusty shelf — to have the 
titles of their works read now and then in a future age, by 
some drowsy churchman, or casual straggler like myself; 
arul in another age to be lost even to remenibrunce. Such 
is the amount of this boasted immortality. A mere tempo- 



118 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

rary rumor, a local sound: like the tone of that bell which 
has just tolled amonix those towers, filling tho ear for a mo- 
ment — lingering transiently in echo — and then passing 
away, like a thing that was not! 

While I sat half-nuirrnuring, half-meditating these un- 
]>rofitable speculations, with my head resting on my hand, 
1 was thrumming with the other hand upon the quarto, 
until I accidentally loosened the clasps; Avhen, to my utter 
astonishment, the little book gave two or three yawns, like 
one awaking from a deep sleep; then a husky hem, and at 
length began to talk. At first its voice was very hoarse 
and broken, being much troubled by a cobweb which some 
studious spider had woven across it, and having probably 
contracted a cold from long exposure to the chills and 
damps of the abbey. In a short time, however, it became 
more distinct, and I soon found it an exceedingly fluent 
conversable little tome. Its language, to be sure, was 
rather quaint and obsolete, and its })ronunciatiou wJiat in 
the j)resent day would be deemed barbarous; but I shall 
endeavor, as far as I am able, to render it in modern_par- 
lance. 

It began with I'ailings about the neglect of the world — 
about merit being sntlered to languish in obscurity, and 
other such commonplace topics of literary repining, and 
complained bitterly that it had not been ojjcned for more 
than two centuries; — tliat the Dean only looked now and 
then into the library, sometimes took down a volume or 
two, trifled with them for a few moments, and then re- 
turned them to their shelves. 

" What a plague do they mean," said the little quarto, 
which I began to perceive was somewhat choleric, " what 
a plague do they mean by keeping several thousand volumes 
of us shut up here, and watched by a set of old vergersv, 
like so many beauties in a harem, merely to be looked at, 
now and then by the f)ean? Books were written to give 
pleasure and to be enjoyed; and I would have a rule passed 
that the Dean should pay each of us a visit at least once a 
year; or if he is not equal to the task, let them once in a wh.ile 
turn loose the whole school of Westminster amoug us, that 
at any rate we may now and then have an airing." 

•" Softly, my worthy friend,*" replied I. ••yiui are not 
aware how much better you are off than most books of 



THE MUTA BILIT7 OF LITER A TUBE. 119 

your generation. By being stored away in this ancient 
library, you are like the treasured remains of those saints 
and monarchs which lie enshrined in the adjoining chapels; 
while the remains of their contemporary mortals, left to 
the ordinary course of nature, have long since returned to 
dust." 

*'Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves and look- 
ing big, " I was written for all the world, not for the book- 
worms of an abbey. I was intended to circulate from 
hand to hand, like other great contemporary works; but 
here have I been clasped up for more than two centuries, 
and might have silently fallen a prey to these worms that 
are playing the very vengeance with my intestines, if you 
had not by chance given me an opportunity of uttering a 
few last words before I go to pieces. 

*' My good friend," rejoined I, '' had you been left to the 
circulation of which you speak, you would long ere this 
have been no more. To Judge from your physiognomy, 
you are now well stricken in years; very few of your con- 
temporaries can be at present in existence; and those few 
owe their longevity to being immured like yourself in old 
libraries; which, suffer me to add, instead of likening to 
harems, you might more properly and gratefully have 
compared to those infirmaries attached to religious estab- 
lishments, for the benefit of the old and decrepit, and 
where, by quiet fostering and no employment, they often 
endure to an amazingly good-for-nothing old age. You 
talk of your contemporaries as if in circulation — where do 
we meet with their works? — what do we hear of Robert 
Groteste of Lincoln? No one could have toiled harder 
than he for immortality. He is said to have written nearly 
two hundred volumes. He built, as it were, a pyramid of 
books to perpetuate his name: but, alas! the pyramid has 
long since fallen, and only a few fragments are scattered in 
various libraries, where they are scarcely disturbed even by 
the antiquarian. What do we hear of Giraldus Cambren- 
sis, the historian, antiquary, philospher, theologian, and 
poet? He declined two bishoprics that he might shut him- 
self up and write for posterity; but posterity never inquires 
after his labors. What of Henry Huntingdon, who, be- 
sides a learned history of England, wrote a treatise on the 
contempt of the world, which the world has revenged by 



120 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

forgetting him? What is quoted of Joseph of Exeter, 
styled the miracle of his age in classical composition? Of 
his three great heroic poems, one is lost forever, excepting 
a mere fragment; the others are only known to a few of 
the curious in literature; and as to his love verses and epi- 
grams, they have entirely disappeared. What is in current 
use of John Wallis, the Franciscan, who acquired the name 
of the tree of life? — of William of Malmsbury; of Simeon 
of Durham; of Benedict of Peterborough; of John Hanvill 
of St. Albans; of " 

"Prithee, friend," cried the quarto in a testy tone, 
*' how old do you think me? You are talking of authors 
that lived long before my time, and wrote either in Latin 
or French, so that they in a manner expatriated themselves, 
and deserved to be forgotten;* but I, sir, was ushered 
into the world from the press of the renowned Wynkyn de 
Worde. I was written in my own native tongue, at a time 
when the language had become fixed; and, indeed, I was 
considered a model of pure and elegant English." 

[I should observe that these remarks were couched in 
such intolerably antiquated terms, that I have had in^finite 
difficulty in rendering them in modern phraseology.] 

"I cry you mercy," said I, "for mistaking your age; 
but it matters little; almost all the writers of your time 
have likewise passed into forgetfulness; and De Worde's 
publications are mere literary rarities among book-collectors. 
The purity and stability of language, too, on which you 
found your claims to perpetuity, have been the fallacious 
dependence of authors of every age, even back to the times 
of the worthy Robert of Gloucester, who wrote his history 
in rhymes of mongrel Saxon, f Even now, many talk of 
Spenser's ' well of pure English undefiled,' as if the language 
ever sprang from a well or fountain-head, and was not 

* In Latin and French hath many soueraiue wittes had great delyte to 
endyte, and have many noble things fulfllde, but certes there ben some that 
speaken their poisye in French, of which speche the Frenchmen have as good 
a fantasye as we have in hearing of Frenchmen's Euglishe. 

Chaucer's TestameM of Love. 

t Holinshed, in his Chronicle, observes, "afterwards, also, by diligent travell 
of Jeffry Chaucer and John Gowrie, in the time of Richard the Second, and 
after them of John Scogan and John Lydgate, nioiike of Bcrrie, our said toong 
was brought to an excellent passe, notwithstanding that it never came unto 
the type of perfection until the time of Queen Elizabeth, wherein John Jewell, 
Bishop of Sarum, John Fox, and sundrie learned and excellent writers, have 
fully accomplished the ornature of the same to their great praise and immortal 
commendation." 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 121 

raiher a mere confluence of various tongues perpetually 
subject, to changes and intermixtures. It is this which has 
made English literature so extremely mutable, and the 
reputation built upon it so fleeting. Unless thought can 
be i.'ommitted to something moi'e permanent and unchange- 
;t.ble than such a medium, even thought must share the fate 
of everything else, and fall into decay. This should serve 
as a check upon the vanit}'' and exultation of the most pop- 
ular writer. He finds the language in which he has em- 
barked his fame gradually altering, and subject to the 
dilapidations of time and the caprice of fashion. He looks 
back, and beholds the early authors of his country, once 
tlie favorites of their day, supplanted by modern writers; 
a few short ages have covered them with obscurity, and 
their merits can only be relished by the quaint taste of the 
bookworm. And such, he anticipates, will be the fate of 
iiisown work, which, however it may be admired in its day, 
and help as a model of purity, will, in the course of years, 
grow antiquated and obsolete, until it shall become almost 
as unintelligible in its native land as an Egyptian obelisk, 
or one of those Runic inscriptions, said to exist in the des- 
erts of Tartary. I declare," added I, with some emotion, 
"when I contemplate a modern library, filled with new 
works in all the bravery of rich gilding and binding, I feel 
disposed to sit down and weep; like the good Xerxes, when 
he surveyed his army, pranked out in all the splendor of 
military array, and reflected that in one hundred years not 
one of them would be in existence!" 

"Ah," said the little quarto with a heavy sigh, " I see 
how it is; these modern scribblers have superseded all the 
good old authors. I suppose nothing is read nowadays but 
Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, Sackville's stately plays and 
Mirror for Magistrates, or the fine-spun euphuisms of the 
' unparalleled John Lyly.' " 

" There you are again mistaken," said I; " the writers 
whom you suppose in vogue, because they happened to be 
so when you were last in circulation, have long since had 
their day. Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, the immortality of 
which was so fondly predicted by his admirers,* and which, 

*"Live ever sweetc booke; the simple iTnage of his f;:entle witt, and the 
fcoldeu pillar of his noble coiirage; and ever notify unto the world that thy 
writer was the secretary of eloquence, the breath of the muses, the honey bee 



122 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

in truth, was full of noble thoughts, delicate images, and 
graceful turns of language, is now scarcely ever mentioned. 
Sackville has strutted into obscurity; and even Lyly, though 
his writings were once the delight of a court, and appar- 
ently perpetuated by a proverb, is now scarcely known even 
by name. A whole crowd of authors who wrote and 
wrangled at the time, have likewise gone down with all 
their writings and their controversies. Wave after wave 
of succeeding literature has rolled over them, until they 
are buried so deep, that it is only now and then that some 
industrious diver after fragments of antiquity brings up a 
specimen for the gratification of the curious. 

" For my part,'' I continued, " I consider this mutability 
of language a wise precaution of Providence for the benefit 
of the world at large, and of authors in particular. To 
reason from analogy, we daily behold the varied and 
beautiful tribes of vegetables spring up, flourishing, adorn- 
ing the fields for a short time, and then fading into dust, 
to make way for their successors. Were not this the case, 
the fecundity of nature would be a grievance instead of a 
blessing; the earth would groan with rank and excessive 
vegetation, and its surface become a tangled wilderness. 
In like manner, the works of genius and learning decline 
and make way for subsequent productions. Jjanguage 
gradually varies, and with it fade away the writings of 
authors who have flourished their allotted time: otherwise 
the creative powers of genius would overstock the world, 
and the mind would be completely bewildered in the endless 
mazes of literature. Formerly there were some restraints 
on this excessive multiplication: works had to be transcribed 
by hand, which was a slow and laborious operation; they 
were written either on parchment, which was expensive, so 
that one work was often erased to make way for another; 
or on papyrus, which was fragile and extremely perishable. 
Authorship was a limited and unprofitable craft, pursued 
chiefly by monks in the leisure and solitude of their cloister^;. 
The accumulation of manuscripts was slow and costly, and 
confined almost entirely to monasteries. To these circum- 
stances it may, in some measure, be owing that we have 

of the daintyest flowers of witt and arte, the pith of morale and the intelleotual 
virtues, the arme of Bellona in the trjld, the tuu^iie of Suada in the chamber, 
the spirits of Practise in esse, aud the paraxon of excellency in print." 

Hakvev's Pierce's Supei'erogatuni. 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 123 

not beeu inundated by the intellect of antiquity; that the 
fountains of thought have not been broken up, and modern 
genius drowned in the deluge. But the inventions of paper 
and the press have put an end to all these reistraints; they 
have made every one a writer, aud enabled every mind to 
pour itself into print, and diffuse itself over the whole in- 
tellectual world. The consequences are alarming. The 
stream of literature has swollen into a torrent — augmented 
into a river — expanded iuto a sea. A few centuries since, 
five or six hundred manuscripts constituted a great library; 
but what would you say to libraries, such as actually exist, 
containing three or four hundred thousand volumes; legions 
of authors at the same time busy; and a press going on 
with fearfully increasing activity, to double and quadruple 
the number ? Unless some unforeseen mortality should 
break out among the progeny of tJie Muse, now that she 
has become so prolific, I tremble for posterity. I fear the 
mere fiuctuation of language will not be sufficient. Criti- 
cism may do much; it increases with the increase of litera- 
ture, and resembles one of those solitary checks on population 
spoken of by economists. All possible encouragement, 
therefore, should be given to the growth of critics, good or 
bad. But 1 fear all will be in vain; let criticism do what 
it may, writers will write, printers will print, and the 
world will inevitably be overstocked with good books. It 
will soon be the employment of a lifetime merely to learn 
their names. Many a man of passable information at the 
present day reads scarcely anything but reviews, and before 
long a man of erudition will be little better thcin a mere 
walking catalogue." 

'■ " My very good sir," said the little quarto, yawning most 
drearily in my face, "excuse my interrupting you, but I 
perceive you are rather given to prose. I would ask the 
fate of an author who was making some noise just as 1 left 
the world. His reputation, however, was considered quite 
temporary. The learned shook their heads at him, for he 
was a poor, half-educated varlet, that knew little of Latin, 
and nothing of Greek, and liad been obliged to run the 
country for deer-stealing. I think his name was Shaks- 
peare. I presume he soon sunk into oblivion." 

"On the contrary," said I, "it is owing to that very 
man that the literature of his period has experienced a 



124 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

duration beyond the ordinary term of English literature. 
There arise authors ndw and then, who seem proof against 
the mutability of langiuige, l>ecause they have rooted them- 
selves in the unchanging princi])Ics of human nature. 
They are like gigantic trees that we sometimes see on the 
banks of a str*im, which, by their vast and deep roots, 
penetrating through the mere surface, and laying hold on 
the very foundations of tlie earth, preserve the soil around 
them from being swept away by the overflowing current, 
and hold u]) many a neighboring plant, and, perhaps, 
worthless weed, to ])erpetuity. Such is the case with 
Shakspeare, whom we behold, defying the encroachments 
of time, retaining in modern use the language and litera- 
ture of his day, and giving duration to many an indifferent 
author merely from having flourished in his vicinity. 
But even he, I grieve to say, is gradually assuming the tint 
of age, and his whole form is overrun by a profusion of 
commentors, who, like clambering vines and creepers, 
almost bury the noble plant that upholds them."' 

Here the little quai'to bogaji to heave his sides and 
chuckle, until at length he broke out into a plethoric fit of 
laughter that had well nigh choked him by reason of his 
excessive corpulency. ** Mighty well!'' cried he, as soon as 
he could recover breath, "mighty well! and so you would 
persuade me that the literature of an age is to be perpetu- 
ated by a vagabond deer-stealer! by a man without learning! 
by a poet! forsooth — a poet!'' And here he wheezed forth 
another fit of laughter. 

r confess that I felt somewliat nettled at this rudeness, 
which, however, I pardom^d on account of his having flour- 
ished in a less polished age. I determined, nevertheless, 
not to give up my point. 

*' Yes." resumed I positively, " a poet; for of all writers 
he has the best chance for immortality. Others may write 
from the head, but he writes from the heart, and the heart 
will always understand him. He is the faithful portrayer 
of Nature, whose features are always the same, and always 
interesting. Prose writers are voluminous and unwieldy; 
their pages crowded with commonplaces, and their 
thoughts expanded into tediousness. But with the true 
poet everything is terse, touching, or brilliant. He givea 
the choicest thoughts in the choicest language. He illus- 



THE MUTABILITY OF L ITER A TUBE. 125 

trates them by everytliiug tliat lie sees most striking in 
nature and art. Ho enriches them by pictures of human 
life, such as is passing before him. llis writings, there- 
fore, contain the spirit, the aroma, if I may use the phrase, 
of the age in which he lives. They are caskets which in- 
close within a small compass the wealth of the language- 
its family jewels, which are tlius transmitted in a portable 
form to posterity. The setting may occasionally be anti- 
quated, and require now and then to be renewed, as in the 
case of Chaucer; but the brilliancy and intrinsic value of 
the gems continue unaltered. Cast a look back over the 
long reach of literary history. What vast valleys of dull- 
ness, filled with monkish legends and academical contro- 
versies! What bogs of theological speculations! What 
dreary wastes of metaphysics! Here aiid there only do we 
behold the heaven-illumined bards, elevated like beacons on 
thoir widely-separated heights, to transmit the pure light of 
poetical intelligence from age to age."* 

I was just about to launch forth into eulogiumsupon the 
poets of the day, when the sudden opening of the door 
caused me to turn my head. It was the verger, who came 
to inform me that it was time to close the library. I 
sought to have a parting word with the quarto, but the 
worthy little tome was silent; the clasps were closed; and it 
looked perfectly unconscious of all that had ]jassed. I have 
been to the library two or three times since, and have en- 
deavored to draw it into further conversation, but in vain; 
and whether all this rambling colloquy actually took place, 
or whether it was another of those odd day-dreams to 
which I am subject, I have never, to this moment, been 
able to discover. 

* Thorow earth, and waters deepe. 

The pen by skill doth passe: 
And featly nyps the worldcs abuse, 

And shoes us in a glasse. 
The vertu and the vice 

Of every wiKht alyve ; 
The ht)ney combe that bee doth make 

Is not so sweet in hyve. 
As are the jroldcn leves 

That drops from poet's head. 
Which doth surmount our common talke, 

Farre as dross doth lead. 

Chuschtabd. 



126 THE SKETCH-BOOK, 



RURAL FUNERALS. 

Here's a few flowers! but about midniglit more 
The herbs that have on them cold dew o' the night 

Are strewings fitt'st for graves 

You were as flowers now withered : even so 
These herb'lets shall, which we upon you strow. 

Cymbeline. 

Among the beautiful and simple-hearted customs of rural 
life, which still linger in some parts of England, are those 
of strewing flowers before the funerals and planting them 
at the graves of departed friends. These, it is said, are 
the reinains of some of the rites of the primitive church; 
but they are of still higher antiquity, having been-^b- 
served among the Greeks and Romans, and f requentl}^ men- 
tioned by their writers, and were, no doubt, the spontane- 
ous tributes of unlettered affection, originating long before 
art had tasked itself to modulate sorrow into song, or story 
it on the monument. They are now onl}^ to be met with in 
the most distant and retired places of the kingdom, where 
fashion and innovation have not been able to throng in, 
and trample out all the curious and interesting traces of 
the olden time. 

In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed whereon the 
corpse lies is covered with flowers, a custom alluded to in 
one of the wild and plaintive ditties of Ophelia: 

White his shroud as the mountain snow. 

Larded all with sweet flowers; 
Which be-wept to the grave did go. 

With true love showers. 

There is also a most delicate and beautiful rite observed 
in some of the remote villages of the south, at the funeral 
of a female who has died young and unmarried. A chaplet 
of white flowers is borne before the corpse by a young girl, 
nearest in age, size, and resemblance, aud is afterwards 
hung up in the church over the accustomed seat of the de- 



RVRAL FUNERALS. 127 

ceased. These chaplets are sometimes made of white paper, 
ill imitation of flowers, and inside of them is generally a 
pair of white gloves. They are intended as emblems of the 
purity of the deceased, and the crown of glory which she 
has received in heaven. 

In some parts of the country, also, the dead are carried 
to the grave with the singing of psalms and hymns; a kind 
of triumph, "to show," says Bourne, "that they have fin- 
ished their course with joy, and are become conquerors." 
This, I am informed, is observed in some of the northern 
countries, particularly in Northumberland, and it has a 
pleasing, though melancholy effect, to hear, of a still even- 
ing, in some lonely country scene, the mournful melody of 
a funeral dirge swelling from a distance and to see the train 
slowly moving along the landscape. 

Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round 
Thy harmless and unhaunted ground, 
And as we sing thy dirge, we will 

The Daffodill 
And other flowers lay upon 
The altar of our love, thy stone. 

Herrick. 

There is also a solemn respect paid by the traveller to the 
passing funeral, in these sequestered places; for such spec- 
tacles, occurring among the quiet abodes of Nature, sink 
deep into the soul. As the mourning train approaches, he 
pauses, uncovered, to let it go by; he then follows silently 
in the rear; sometimes quite to the grave, at other times for 
a few hundred yards, and having paid this tribute of resjDect 
to the deceased, turns and resumes his journey. 

The rich vein of melancholy which runs through the 
English character, and gives it some of its most touching 
and ennobling graces, is finely evidenced in these pathetic 
customs, and in the solicitude shown by the common peo- 
ple for an honored and a peaceful grave. The humblest 
peasant, whatever may be his lowly lot while living, is anx- 
ious that some little respect may be paid to his remains. 
Sir Thomas Overbury, describing the "faire and happy 
milkmaid," observes, "thus lives she, and all her care is, 
that she may die in the spring time, to have store of flow- 
ers stucke upon her winding sheet." The poets, too, who 
always breathe the feeling of a nation, continually advert 



1:^8 ^BE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ho this fond solicitude about the grave. In "The Maid's 
Tragedy," by Beaumont and Fletcher, there is a beautiful 
instance of the kind describing the capricious melanchoiy 
of a broken-hearted girl. 

When she sees a bank 
Stuck full of flowers, she, with a sigh, will tell 
Her servants, what a pretty place it were 
To bury lovers in; and made her maids 
Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse. 

The custom of decorating gi'aves was once univ^ersally 
prevalent; osiers were carefully bent over them to keep the 
turf uninjured, and about them were planted evergreens 
and flotvers. " We adorn their graves," says Evelyn, in his 
Sylvia, •' with flowers and redolent plants, just emblems of 
the life of man, which has been compared in Holy Scrip- 
tures to those fading beauties, whose roots being buried in 
ilishonor, rise again in glory." This usage has now be- 
come extremely rare in England; but it may still be met 
with in the churchyards of retired villages, among^ the 
Welsh mountains; and I recollect an instance of it at the 
small town of Ruthven, whicli lies at the head of the beau- 
tiful vale of Clewyd. I have been told also by a friend, 
who was present at the funeral of a young girl in Glamor- 
ganshire, that the female attendants had their aprons full 
of flowers, which, as soon as tlie body was interred, they 
stuck about the grave. 

He noticed several graves which had been decorated in 
the same manner. As the flowers had been merely stuck m 
the ground, and not planted, they had soon withered, and 
might be seen in various states of decay; some drooping, 
others quite perished. They were afterwards to be su})- 
planted by holly, rosemary, and other evergreens, which on 
some graves had grown to great luxuriance, and overshad- 
owed the tombstones. 

There was formerly a melancholy fancifulness in the ar- 
rangement of these rustic offerings, that had something in 
it truly poetical. The rose was sometimes blended with the 
lily, to form a general emblem of frail mortality. " This 
sweet flower," said Evelyn, " borne on a branch set with 
thorns, and accompanied witii the lily, are natural hiero- 



RURAL FUNERALS. 129 

glyphics of our fugitive, umbratile, anxious, and transitory 
life, Wiuch, making so fair a show for a time, is not yet 
without its thorns and crosses." The nature and color" of 
the {lowers, and of the ribbons with which they were tied, 
had often a particular reference to the qualities or story of 
the deceased, or were expressive of the feelings of the 
mourner. In an old poem, entitled " Corydon's Doleful 
Knell/' a lover specifies the decorations he intends to use: 

A garland shall be framed 

By Art and Nature's skill. 
Of sundry-colored flowers. 

In token of good will. 

And sundry-colored ribbons 

On it I will bestow; 
But chiefly blacke and yellowe 

With her to grave shall go. 

I'll deck her tomb witli flowers 

The rarest ever seen; 
And with my tears as showers 

I'll keep them fresh and green. 

The white rose, we are told, was planted at the grave of 
a virgin; her chaplet was tied with white ribbons, in token 
of her spotless innocence; though sometimes black ribbons 
were intermingled, to bespeak the grief of the survivors. 
The red rose was occasionally used, in remembrance of such 
as had been remarkable for benevolence; but roses in 
general were appropriated to the graves of lovers, Evelyn 
tells us that the custom was not altogether extinct in his 
time, near his dwelling in the county of Surrey, *' where the 
maidens yearly planted and decked the graves of their de- 
funct sweethearts with rose-bushes.'' And Camden likewise 
remarks, in his Brittania: "■Here is also a certain custom, 
observed time out of mind, of planting rose-trees upon the 
graves, especially by the young men and maids who have 
lost their loves; so that this churchyard is now full of 
them." 

When the deceased had been unhappy in their loves, 
emblems of a more gloomy character were used, such as the 
yew and cypress; and if flowers were strewn, they were of 
the most melancholy colors. Thus, in poems by Thomas 
Stanley, Esq. (published in 1651), is the following stanza; 



130 TSE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Yet strew 
Upon my dif^mall grave 
Such oft'eviugs as you Lave, 

Forsaken cypresse and yewe; 
For kinder Howers can take no hirth 
Or growth from .such unhapi>y earth. 

In " The Maid's Tragedy," a pathetic little air is intro- 
duced, illustrative of this mode of decorating the funerals 
of females who have been dibappointed in love. 

Lay a garland on my hearse 

Of ttie dismal yew^ 
Maidens willow branches wear, 

Say 1 died true. 

My love was false, but I was firm. 

From my hour of birth. 
Upon my buried body lie 

Lightly, gentle earth. 

The natural effect of sorrow over the dead is to refine and 
elevate the mind; and we have a })roof of it in the puril}^ of 
sentiment, and the unaffected elegance of thought, which 
pervaded tlie whole of these funeral observances. Thus, it 
was an especial precaution that none but sweet-scented 
evergreens and flowers should be employed. The intention 
seems to have been to soften the horrors of the tomb, to be- 
guile the mind from brooding over the disgraces of perish- 
ing mortality, and to associate the memory of the deceased 
with the most delicate and beautiful objects in nature. 
There is a dismal process going on in the grave, ere dust 
can return to its kindred dust, which the imagination 
shrinks from contemplating; and we seek still to think of 
the form we have loved, with those refined associations 
which it awakened when lilooming before us in youth and 
beauty. "Lay her i' the earth," says Laertes of his virgin 
sister. 

And from her fair nnd unpnlluted Hesh 

May violets spring. 

Herrick, also, in his '* Dirge of .Tephtha," pourt? forth a 
fragrant flow of poetical tliought and imagery, which in a 
manner embalms the dead in the recollections of the living. 



RURAL FUNERALS. 131 

Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, 

And make this place all Paradise: 

May sweets grow here! and smoke from heaoe 

Fat frankincense. 
Let balme and cassia send their scent 
From out thy maiden monument. 

* * * * # 
May all shie maids at wonted hours 
Come forth to strew thy tombe with SowersI 
May virgins, when they come to mourn, 

Male incense bum 
Upon thine altar! then return 
And leave thee sleeping in thy urn. 

I might crowd my pages with extracts from the older 
British poets, wlio wrote when these rites were more preva- 
lent, and delighted frequently to allude to them; but I 
have already quoted more than is necessary. 1 cannot, 
however, refrain from giving a passage from 8hakspeare, 
even though it should appear trite, which illustrates the 
emblematical meaning often conveyed in these floral 
tributes, and at the same time possesses that magio of 
language and appositeness of imagery for which he stands 
pre-emment. 

With fairest flowers. 
Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 
I'll sweeten thy sad grave; thou shalt not lack 
The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor 
The azured harebell like thy veins; no, nor 
The leaf of eglantine; whom not to slander, 
Outsweetened not thy breath. 

There is certainly something more affecting, in these 
prompt and spontaneous offerings of nature, than in the 
most costly monuments of art; the hand strews the flower 
while the heart is warm, and the tear falls on the grave as 
affection is binding the osier round the sod; but pathos 
expires under the slow labor of the chisel, and is chilled 
among the cold conceits of sculptured marble. 

It is greatly to be regretted, that a custom so truly ele- 
gant and touching has disappeared from general use, and 
exists only in the most remote and insignificant villages. 
But it seems as if poetical custom always shuns the walks 
of cultivated society. In proportion as people grow polite, 
they cease to be poetical. They talk of poetry, bub they 
have leai-nt to oheok its free impulses, to distrust its sally- 



133 THE 8KET0H-B00K. 

ing emotions, and to supply its most affecting and pict- 
uresque usages by studied form and pompous cereraoniaL 
Few pageants can be more stately and frigid than an 
English funeral in town. It is made up of show and 
gloomy parade: mourning carriages, mourning horses, 
mourning plumes, and hireling mourners, who make a 
mockery of grief. *' There is a grave digged," says Jeremy 
Taylor, "and a solemn mourning, and a great talk in the 
neighboi'hood, and when the dales are finished, they shall 
be, and they shall be remembered no more." The asso- 
ciate in the gay and crowded city is soon forgotten: the 
hurrying succession of new inmates and new pleasures 
effaces him from our minds, and the very scenes and circles 
in which he moved are incessantly fluctuating. But 
funerals in the country are solemnly impressive. The 
stroke of death makes a wider space in the village circle, 
and it is an awful event in the tranquil uniformity of rural 
life. The passing bell tolls its knell in every ear; it steals 
with its pervading melancholy over hill and vale, and 
saddens all the landscape. __ 

The fixed and unchanging features of the country, also, 
perpetuate the memory of the friend with whom we once 
enjoyed them; who was the companion of our most retired 
walks, and gave animation to every lonely scene. His idea 
is associated with every charm of Nature: we hear his voice 
in the echo which he once delighted to awaken; his spirit 
haunts the grove which he once frequented; we think of 
him in the wild upland solitude, or amidst the pensive 
beauty of the valley. In the freshness of joyous morning 
we remember his beaming smiles aud bounding gayety ; 
and when sober evening returns, with its gathering shadows 
and subduing quiet, we call to mind many a twilight hour 
of gentle talk and sweet-souled melancholy. 

Each lonely place shall him restore, 

For him the tear be duly shed, 
Beloved, till life can charm no more. 

And mourn'd till pity's self be dead. 

Another cause that perpetuates the memory of the de- 
ceased in the country, is, that the grave is more immediately 
in sight of the survivors. They pass it on their way to 
prayer; it meets their eyes when their hearts are softened 



BUBAL FUNEBAL8. 133 

by the exercise of devotion; they linger about it on the 
Sabbath, when the mind is disengaged from worldly cares, 
and most disposed to turn aside from present pleasures and 
loves, and to sit down among the solemn mementos of the 
past. In North Wales, the peasantry kneel and pray over 
the graves of their deceased friends for several Sundays 
after the interment; and where the tender rite of strewing 
and planting flowers is still practiced, it is always renewed 
on Easter, Whitsuntide, and other festivals, when the sea- 
son brings the companion of former festivity more vividly 
to mind. It is also invariably performed by the nearest 
relatives and friends; no menials nor hirelings are employed, 
and if a neighbor yields assistance, it would be deemed an 
insult to offer compensation. 

I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural custom, because, 
as it is one of the last, so it is one of the holiest offices of 
love. The grave is the ordeal of true affection. It is there 
that the divine passion of the soul manifests its superiorit}' 
to the instinctive impulse of mere animal attachment. 
The latter must be continually refreshed and kept alive by 
the presence of its object; but the love that is seated in the 
soul can live on long remembrance. The mere inclinations 
of sense languish and decline with the charms which excited 
them, and turn with shuddering and disgust from the dis- 
mal precincts of the tomb; but it is thence that truly spirit- 
ual affection rises purified from every sensual desire, and 
returns, like a holy flame, to illumine and sanctify the 
heart of the survivor. 

The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which 
we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to 
heal — every other affliction to forget; but this wound we 
consider it a duty to keep open — this affliction we cherish 
and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who 
would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom 
from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? Where 
is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of 
parents, though to remember be but to lament ? Who, 
even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over 
whom he mourns? Who, even when the tomb is closing 
upon the remains of her he most loved; when he feels his 
heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portal; would 
accept of consolation that must be bought by lorgetfulness? 



134 TRE SKETCH-BOOK. 

— No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest 
attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its 
delights; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is 
calmed into the gentle tear of recollection — when tlie sud- 
den anguish and the convulsive agony over the present 
ruins of all that we most loved is softened away into pen- 
sive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness 
— who would root out such a sorrow from the heart ? 
Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the 
bright hour of gayety, or spread a deejDer sadness over the 
hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it even for the 
song of pleasure or the burst of revelry? No, there is a 
voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remem- 
brance of the dead, to which we turn even from the charms 
of the living. Oh, the gi'ave! — the grave! — it buries every 
error — covers every defect — extinguishes every resentment! 
From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and 
tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even 
of an enemy and not feel a compunctious throb, that he 
should ever have warred with the poor handful of eartli 
that lies mouldering before him ? 

But the grave of those we loved — what a place for medi- 
tation! There it is that we call up in long review the whole 
history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endear- 
ments lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily inter- 
course of intimacy; — there it is that we dwell upon the ten- 
derness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene. 
The bed of death, with all its stifled griefs — its noiseless 
attendance — its mute, watchful assiduities. The last testi- 
monies of expiring love! The feeble, fluttering, thrilling, 
oh! how thrilling! pressure of the hand. The last fond 
look of the glazing eye, turning upon us even from the 
threshold of existence. The faint, faltering accents, strug- 
gling in death to give one more assurance of affection! 

Ay, go to the grave of buried love and mediate! There 
settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit 
unrequited, every past endearment unregarded, of that de- 
parted being, who can never — never — never return to be 
soothed by thy contrition! 

If thou art a child, and hast ever added sorrow to the 
soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate 
parent — if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the 



RURAL FUNERALS. 135 

fond bosom that veutured its whole happiuuss in thy arms to 
doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth — if thou art 
a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, word or deed, the 
spirit tliat generously confided in thee — if thou art a lover 
and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart 
which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet; then be sure 
that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every un- 
gentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, 
and knocking dolef ull}'' at the soul — then be sure that thou 
wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and 
utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear — • 
more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. 

Thou weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beau- 
ties of nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if 
thou canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret; 
— but take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite 
affliction over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful 
and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living. 



liT writing the preceding article, it was not intended to 
give a full detail of the funeral customs of the English 
peasantry, but merely to furnish a few hints and quotations 
illustrative of particular rites, to be appended, by way of 
note, to another paper, which has been withheld. The ar- 
ticle swelled insensibly into its present form, and this is 
mentioned as an apology for so brief and casual a notice of 
these usages, after they have been amply and learnedly in- 
vestigated in other works. 

I must observe, also, that I am well aware that this cus- 
tom of adorning graves with flowers prevails in other coun- 
tries besides England. Indeed, in some it is much more 
general, and is observed even by the rich and fashionable; 
but it is then apt to lose its simplicity, and to degenerate 
into affectation. Bi'ight, in his travels in Lower Hungary, 
tells of monuments of marble, and recesses formed for re- 
tirement, with seats placed among bowers of green-house 
plants; and that the graves generally are covered with the 
gayest flowers of the season. lie gives a casual picture of 
filial piety which I cannot describe, for I trust it is as use- 
ful as it is delightful to illustrate the amiable virtues of the 
sex. *' When L was at Berlin," says he, " I followed th« 



136 THE 8KE2VH-B00K. 

celebrated Ifflaud to the grave. Mingkni with some pomp, 
you might trace much real feeling, in the midst of the 
ceremony, my attention was attracted by a young woman 
who stood on a mound of eartl), newly covered with turf, 
which she anxiously protected from the passing crowd. It 
was the tomb of her parent; aTul the figure of this affec- 
tionate daughter presented a monument moro striking than 
the most costly work of art." 

I will barely add an instance of sepulchral decoration 
that I once met with among the mountains of Switzerland. 
It was at tlie village of (Icrsau, which stands on the bor- 
ders of the lake of Luzerne, at the foot of Mount liigi. It 
was once tlio capital of ti miniature repu1)lic, shut up be- 
tween the Alps and the lake, aiul accessible on the land side 
only by foot-paths. 'I'he whole force o(: tlu> republic did 
not exceed six hundred llgliting-men, and a few miles of 
circumference, scooped out, as it were, fror.i the bosom of 
the mountains, comprised its territory. The village of (icr- 
sau seemed separated from the rest of the M^^rld, and re- 
tained the golden simplicity of a purer age. It had a small 
(;hurch, with a burying grouiul adjoining. At the heads of 
the graves were placed crosses of wood or ii-on. On some 
were aftixed miniatures, rudely executed, but evidently at- 
tempts at likenesses of the deceased. On the crosses were 
hung chaplets of flowers, some withering, others fresh, as 
if occasionally renewed. 1 |)aused with interest at the 
scone; I felt that I was at the source of poetical descrip- 
tion, for these were the beautiful, but unatfected olTerings 
of the heart, which poets are fain to record. h\ a gayer 
and more populous place, I should have suspected them io 
have been suggestetl by factitious sentiment, derived from 
books; but the good ])eople of (Jersau kiu>w little of books; 
there was not a novel nor a love })oem. in the village; ami I 
question whether any peasant of the place lireamt, while he 
was twining a fresh chaplet for the grave of his mistress, 
that he was fuUilling one of the most fanciful rites of poet- 
icftl devotion, and that he was practically a poet. 



THE INN KITCHEN, 137 



THE INN KITCHEN. 

Sbull 1 not take iniue ease iu laiue inu? 

Falstaff. 

During a journey tluit I onco mnde through the Neth. 
ei'liuids, I luul nn-ived one evening iit the Pomme (VOr, 
the principal inn of a small Flemish village. It was after 
tlie hour of tlie table d'hote, so that 1 was obliged to make 
a solitai-y supper from the relies of its ampler board. The 
weather was chilly; I was seated alone iu one end of a great 
gloomy dining-room, and my repast being over, I had iho. 
prospect before me of a long dull evening, without any vis- 
ible means of enlivening it. I summoned mine host, and 
requested sonujthing to read; lie brouglit me the whole lit- 
erary stock of the househokl, a Dutch family bible, an 
almanac in the same language, and a number of old Paris 
newspapers. As I sat dozing over one of the latter, read- 
ing old lu^ws aiul stale criticisms, my ear was now and tlien 
struck with bursts of laughter which seemed to proceed 
from the kitchen. Every one that has travelled on tlie 
Continent must know how favorite a resort the kitchen of 
a country inn is to the middle and infei-ior or(.ler of travel- 
lers; particularly in that ecpiivocal kind of weather when a 
fire becomes agreeable toward evening. I threw aside tlu^ 
newspaper, and explored my way to the kitclien, to take a 
peep at the gi-oup that a])peared to be so merry. It was 
composed partly of travellers who had arrived some houi's 
before in a diligence, and i)artly of the usual attendants 
and hangers-on of inns. They were seated around a great 
burnished stove, that might liave been mistaken for an 
altar, at which they were worshipping. It was covered 
with various kitchen vessels of resplendent brightness, 
among which steamed and hissed a huge copper tea-kettle. 
A large lamp threw a strong mass of liglit upon the group, 
bringing out many odd featun^s in strong relief. ]ts yel- 
low rays partially illumined the spacious kitchen, dying 



138 TEE 8KET0H-B00K. 

duskily away into remote corners; except where they set- 
tled in mellow radiance on the broad side of a flitch of 
bacon, or were reflected back from well-scoured utensils 
that gleamed from the midst of obscurity. A strajiping 
Flemish lass, with long golden pendants in her ears, and. 
a necklace with a golden heart suspended to it, was pi-esid- 
ing priestess of the temple. 

Many of the company were furnished v/ith pipes, and 
most of them with some kind of evening potation. I found 
their mirth was occasioned by anecdotes which a little 
swarthy Frenchman, with a dry weazen face and large 
whiskers, was giving of his love adventures; at the end of 
each of which there was one of those bursts of honest un- 
ceremonious laughter, in which a man indulges in that 
temple of true liberty, an inn. 

As I had no better mode of getting through a tedious 
blustering evening, I took my seat near the stove, and 
listened to a variety of travellers' tales, some very extrava- 
gant, and most very dull. All of them, however, havQ 
faded from my treacherous memory, except one, whicli I 
will endeavor to relate. I fear, however, it derived its 
chief zest from the manner in which it was told, and the 
peculiar air and appearance of the narrator. He was a 
corpulent old Swiss, who had the look of a veteran traveller. 
He was dressed in a tarnished green travelling-jacket, with 
a broad belt round liis waist, and a pair of overalls with 
buttons from the hips to the ankles. He was of a full, 
rubicund countenance, with a double chin, aquiline nose, 
and a pleasant twinkling eye. His hair was light, and 
curled from under an old green velvet travelling-cap, stuck 
on one side of his head. He was interrupted more than 
once by the arrival of guests, or the remarks of his auditors; 
and paused, now and then, to replenish his pipe; at which 
times he had generally a roguish leer, and a sly joke, for 
the buxom kitchen maid. 

I wish my reader could imagine the old fellow lolling in 
a huge arm-chair, one arm a-kimbo, the other holding a 
curiously twisted tobacco-pipe, formed of genuine eciime de 
met, decorated with silver chain and silken tassel — his head 
cocked on one side, and a whimsical cut of the eye occa- 
sionally, as he recited the following story: 



THE SPECTRE BBIDEQBOOM. 139 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 

A traveller's tale,* 

He that supper tor is diglit, 

He lyes full cold, I trow, this nightl 

Yestreen to chamber I him led, 

This night Gray-steel has made his bed! 

Sir Eger,'Sir Grahame, and Sir Gray-steei-. 

On the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald, a 
wild and romantic tract of Upper Germany, that lies not far 
from the confluence of the Maine and the Rhine, there stood, 
many, many years since, the Castle of the Baron Von Land- 
short. It is now quite fallen to decay, and almost buried 
among beech trees and dark firs; above which, however, its 
old watch-tower may still be seen struggling, like the former 
possessor I have mentioned, to carry a high head, and look 
down upon a neighboring country. 

The Baron was a dry branch of the great family of Kat- 
zenelleabogen,f and inherited the relics of the property, and 
all the pride, of his ancestors. Though the warlike disposi- 
tion of his predecessors had much impaired the family pos- 
sessions, yet the Baron still endeavored to keep up some show 
of former state. The times were peaceable, and the Ger- 
man nobles, in general, had abandoned their inconvenient 
old castles, perched like eagles' nests among the moun- 
tains, and had built more convenient residences in the 
valleys; still the Baron remained proudly drawn up in his 
little fortress, cherishing with hereditary inveteracy all the 
old family feuds; so that he was on ill terms with some of 
his nearest neighbors, on account of disputes that had 
happened between their great-great-grandfathers. 

The Baron had but one child, a daughter; but Nature, 

* The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothinar loi-e, will perceive 
that the above Tale must have been su^sested to the old Swiss by a little 
French anecdote, of a circumstance said to have taken place in Paris. 

t ?. c, Cat's Elbow— the name of a family of those parts, and very power- 
ful in former times. The appellation, we are told, was given in compliment 
to a peerless dame of the family, celebrated for a fine arm. 



140 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

^vhen she grants but one cliild, always uoinpeiisates by mak- 
ing it a prodigy; and so it was with the daughter of the 
Baron. All the nurses, gossij)s. anil country cousins, as- 
sured her father that she had not her equal for beauty in 
all Germany; and who should know better than they? 
She had, moreover, been brought up with great care, un- 
der the superintendence of two maiden aunts, who had 
spent some years of their early life at one of the little Ger- 
num courts, and were skilled in all the branches of knowledge 
necessary to the education of a fine lady. Under their in- 
structions, she became a miracle of accomplishments. By 
the time she was eighteen she could embroider to admira- 
tion, and had worked whole histories of the saints in 
tapestry, with such strength of expression in their counte- 
nances that they looked like so many souls in purgatory. 
She could read without great ditliculty, and had spelled 
her way through several cimrch legends, and almost all tlie 
chivalric wonders of the Ileldenbucli. She liad even made 
considerable proficiency in writing, could sign her own 
name without missing a letter, and so legibly, tluit her 
aunts could read it without spectacles. She excelled in 
making little good-for-notliing lady-like knicknacks of all 
kinds; was versed in the most abstruse dancing of the day; 
played a number of airs on the harp and guitar; and knew 
all the tender ballads of the Minnio-lieders by heart. 

Her aunts, too. having been groat llirts and coquettes in 
their younger days, were admirably calculated to be vigilant 
guardians and strict censors of the conduct of their niece; 
for there is no duenna so rigidly prudent, and itu^xorably 
decorous, as a superannuated coquette. She was rarely 
sutfered out of their sight; never went beyond tlie domains 
of the castle, unless well attended, or ratlier well watched; 
had continual lectures read to 1 jr about strict decorum and 
implicit obedience; and, as to the men — pah ! she was 
taught to hold tliem at such distance and distrust, that, 
unless properly authorized, she would not have cast a 
glance upon the handsomest cavalier in the world — no, not 
if he were even dying at her feet. 

The good effects of this system were wonderfully appai'ent. 
The young lady was a pattern of docility and correctness. 
While others were wasting their sweetness in the glare of 
the world, and liable to bo phicked and thrown aside by 



TEE SPECTRE BRIDEOROOM. 141 

every hand, she was coyly blooming into fresh and lovely 
womanhood, under the protection of those immaculate 
spinsters, like a rose-bud blushing forth among guardian 
thorns. Her aunts looked upon her with pride and exul- 
tation, and vaunted that though all the other young ladies 
in the world might go astray, yet, tiuink Heaven, nothing 
of the kind could happen to the heiress of Katzenellen- 
bogen. 

But however scantily the Baron Von Landshort might 
I.)e provided with children, his household was by no means 
a small one, for Providence had enriched him with an abund- 
;).:iee of poor relations. They, one and all, possessed the 
alTectionate disposition common to humble relatives; were 
wonderfully attached to the Baron, and took every possible 
t)ucasion to come in swarms aiul enliven the castle. All 
family festivals were comnuunorated by these good people 
at the Baron's expense; and when they were tilled with 
good cheer, they would declare that there was nothing on 
eartli ^o delightful as these family meetings, these jubilees 
of the heait. 

The B;iron, though a small num, had a large soul, and it 
swelled with satisfaction at the consciousness of being the 
greatest man in the little world about him. lie loved to 
tell long stories about the stark old warrioi's whose por- 
traits looked grimly down from the walls ai'ound, and ho 
found no listeners equal to those who fed at his expense. 
He was much given to the marvellous, and a firm believer 
in all those supernatui-al tales with which every mountain 
and valley in Germany abounds. The faith of his guests 
even exceeded his own: they listened to every tale of 
wonder with open e3'es and mouth, and never failed to be 
astonished, even tliough repeated for the hundredth time. 
Tims lived tlie Baron Von Landshort, the oracle of his 
table, the absolute monarch of his little territory, and 
happy, above all things, in the persuasion that he was the 
wisest man of the age. 

At the time of which my story treats, there was a great 
family-gathering at the castle, on an affair of the utmost 
importance: — it was to receive the destined bridegroom of 
the Baron's daughter. A negotiation had been carried on 
betv/een the father and an old nobleman of Bavaria, to 
unite the dignity of their houses by the maniage of their 



U2 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

children. The preliminaries had been conducted with 
proper punctilio. The young people were betrothed with- 
oub seeing each other, and the time was appointed for the 
marriage ceremony. The young Count Von Altenburg 
had been recalled from the army for the purpose, and was 
actually on his way to the Baron's to receive his bride. 
Missives liad even been received from him, from Wurtz- 
burg, where he was accidentally detained, mentioning the 
day and hour when he might be expected to arrive. 

The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him a 
suitable welcome. The fair bride had been decked out 
w^ith uncommon care. The two aunts had superinteiuled 
lier toilet, and quarrelled the whole morning about every 
article of her dress. The young lady had taken advantage 
of their contest to follow the bent of her own taste; and 
fortunately it was a good one. 8he looked as lovely as 
youthful bridegroom could desire; and the flutter of her 
expectation heightened the lustre of her charms. 

The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the 
gentle heaving of the bosom, the eye now and then lost in 
reverie, all betrayed the soft tumult that was going on iu 
Jier little heart. The aunts were continually hovering 
around her; for maiden aunts are apt to take great interest 
in affairs of this luiturc: they wei'e giving her a world of 
staid counsel how to deport herself, what to say, and in 
Avhat manner to receive the expected lover. 

The Baron was no less busied in preparations, lie had, 
in truth, nothing exactly to do; but he was naturally a 
fuming, bustling little man, and could not remain ])assive 
when all the world was in a hurry. He worried fi'om top 
to bottom of the castle, with an air of infinite anxiety, he 
continually called the servants from their work to exhort 
them to be diligent, and buzzed about every hall and 
chamber, as idly restless and importunate as a blue-bottle 
fly of a warm summer's day. 

In the meantime, the fatted calf had been killed; the 
forests had rung with the clamor of the huntsmen; the 
kitchen was crowded with good cheer; the cellars had 
yielded up whole oceans of Rhein-ifein and Ferne-wein, 
and even the great Heidelburgh tun had been laid under 
contribution. Everything was ready to receive the dis- 
tinguished guests with iSaus unci Bratts in the true spirit 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. U3 

of German hospitality — but the guest delayed to make his 
appearance. Hour rolled after hour. The sun that had 
poured his downward rays upon the rich forest of the 
Odonwald, 'now just gleamed along the summits of the 
rnounkiins. The Biu'on mounted the highest tower, and 
strained his eyes in hopes of catching a distant sight of the 
Count and his attendants. Once he thought he beheld 
them; the sound of liorns came floating from the valley, 
prolonged by the mountain echoes: a number of horsemen 
were seen far below, slowly advancing along the road; but 
when they had nearly reached the foot of the mountain, 
they suddenly struck oif in a diiferent direction. The last 
ray of sunshine departed — the bats began to flit by in the 
twilight — the road grew dimmer and dimmer to the view; 
and nothing appeared stirring in it, but now and then a 
peasant lagging homeward from his labor. 

While the old castle of Landshort was in this state of 
perplexity, a very interesting scene was transacting in a 
different part of the Odenvvald. 

The young Count Von Altenburg was trancpiilly pur- 
suing his route in that sober jog-trot way in wliich a man 
travels toward matrimony when liis friends have taken all 
the trouble and uncertainty of courtship oif his hands, and 
a bride is wiiiting for him, as certainly as a dinner, at the 
end of his journey, lie had encountered at AVurtzburg a 
youthful companion in arms, with whom lie had seen some 
service on tlie frontiers; llcnnan Von tStarkenfaust, one of 
the stoutest hands and wort hicst hearts of (lerman chivalry, 
who was now returning fi'om tlie army. His father's castle 
was not far distant from the fortress of Landshort, although 
a hereditary feud rendered the families hostile, and 
strangers to each other. 

In the warm-hearted moment of recognition, the young 
friends related all their past adventures and fortunes, and 
the Count gave the whole history of his intended nuptials 
with a young lady whom he had never seen, but of whose 
charms he had received the most enrapturing descriptions. 

As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, 
they agreed to perform the rest of the journey together; 
and that they might do it more leisurely, set off from 
Wurtzburg at au early hour, the Count having giving 
directions for his retinue to follow and overtake hun. 



H4 THE SKETCn-BOOK. 

They beguiled their wayfaring vvitli recollecitions of their 
military scones and advontnros; but. tiio ('ount was apt to 
be a little tedious, now and then, about the ro})utod charms 
of his bride, and the felicity that awaited him. 

In this way they had entered auK)ng the mountains of 
the Odenwald, iiiul were traversing one oF its nuist lonely 
and thickly woodeil passes. It is well known that the 
forests of uermany have always been as much infested with 
robbers as its castles by s})ectres; and, at this time, the 
former were ])articularly numerous, from the hordes of dis- 
banded soldiers wandering ;i,bout the (K)untry, It will not 
appear extraordinary, tiierefore, that the cavali(U's were at- 
tacked by a gang of these stragglers, in the midst of tiio 
forest. They del'ended themselves with bravery, but were 
nearly overpowered when the Count's retiiuie arrived to 
their assistance. At sight of them the robbers lied, but 
not until the ('ount had received a mortal wound. He was 
slowly and carefully conveyed back to the city of Wurtz- 
burg. and a fria.r summoned from a neighboring convent, 
who was famous h)v his skill in administin'iug to both^~soul 
and luuly. But half of his skill was superlluous; the 
moments of the unfortunate Count were numbered. 

With his dying breath be entreated his friciul to repair 
instantly to the castle of L;indslu)rt. aiul expliiin the fatal 
cause of his not keeping his a])p(»intment with his bride. 
Though not the nu)st ardent of lovers, he was one of the 
most ])unctili()us of men, and ap[)t\-ii'ed c:iriu!stly solicit- 
ous that this mission should be speedily and courteously 
executed. " Utdess this is done," said he, ''I shall not 
sleep quietly in my grave!" Tie repeated these last words 
with peculiar Svilemnity. A request, at a moment so im- 
pressive, admitted no hesitation. Htarkenfaust endeavored 
to soothe him to calmiu^ss; promised faithfully to execute 
his wish, and gave him iiis hand in solemn pledge. The 
dying man pressed it in acknowledgment, but soon lapsed 
into delirium — raved about his bride — his engagements — his 
pliglitod word; ordered his horse, that he might ride to the 
castle of Landshort, and expireil in the fancied act of vault- 
ing into the saddle. 

k^tarkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier's tear on the 
untimely f;iio of his c^unradc, aiul then pondered on the 
awkward mission be had undertaken. His heart was heavy 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 145 

and his head porploxod; for he was to present liiniself an 
unhid(hMi ii'ucst a!n()n<i: Iiostilc people, and to (hinip their 
festivity with tidings fatal to their liopes. Still there were 
eertain whisperings of curiosity in his bosom to see this far- 
famed beauty of Katzenellenbogen, so cautiously shut up 
from the world; for he was a passionate admirer of the sex, 
and there was a dash of eccentricity and enterprise in his 
character that made him fond of all singular a(lventure. 

Previous to his de})arture, he made all due arrangements 
w ilh the holy fraternity of the convent for the funeral so- 
liMunities of his friend, who was to bo buried in the cathedral 
ol' Wurtzburg, near some of his illustrious relatives and the 
mourning retinue of the Count took charge of his re- 
mains. 

It is now high time that we should return to the ancient 
family of Katzenellcnbogen, who were impatient for their 
guests, and still more for their dinner; and to the worthy little 
Baron, whom we left airing himself on the watch-tower. 

Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The Baron 
descended from the tower in despair. The banquet, which 
had been delayed from hour to hour, could no longer be 
postponed. The meats were already overdone, the cook in 
an agony; and the whole household had the look of a gar- 
rison that had been reduced by famine. ^J'he Baron was 
obliged reluctantly to give orders for the feast without the 
presence of the guest. All were seated at table, and just 
on the point of (tommencing, when the sound of a horn 
from without the gate gave notice of the a])proach of a 
stranger. Another long blast lilled the old courts of the 
castle with its echoes, and was answered by the warder from 
the walls. The Bai-on hastened to receive his future son- 
in-law. 

The di'awbi'idge had been let down, and the stranger was 
before the gate. lie was a tall gallant cavalier, mounted on 
a black steed. His counteiuince was pale, but he had a 
beaming romantic eye, and an air of stately melancholy. The 
Baron was a little mortilied that he should have come in 
this simple, solitary style. His dignity for a moment was 
ruflled, and he felt disposed to consider it a want of proper 
respc^ct Tor the important occasion, and the important fam- 
ily with which he was to be connected. Ilepacilied iiiinself, 
however, with the conclusion that it musi have be <u youth- 



146 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

fill impatience which had induced him thus to spur on sooner 
than his attendants. 

*' I am sorry, '^ said the stranger, " to break in upon you 
thus unseasonably — " 

Here the Baron interrupted him with a world of compli- 
ments and greetings; for, to tell the truth, he prided him- 
self upon his courtesy and eloquence. The stranger at- 
tempted, once or twice, to stem the torrent of words, but 
in vain; so he bowed his head and suffered it to flow on. 
By the time the Baron had come to a pause, they had 
reached the inner court of the castle; and the stranger was 
again about to speak, when he was once more interrupted 
by the appearance of the female part of the family, 
leading forth the shrinking and blushing bride. He 
gazed on her for a moment as one entranced; it seemed 
as if his whole soul beamed forth in the gaze, and rested 
upon that lovely form. One of the maiden annts whispered 
something in her ear; she made an effort to speak; her 
moist blue eye was timidly raised, gave a shy glance of in- 
quiry on the stranger, and was cast again to the ground. 
The words died away; but there was a sweet smile playing 
about her lips, and a soft dimpling of the cheek, that 
showed her glance had not been unsatisfactory. It was 
impossible for a girl of the fond age of eighteen, highly 
predisposed for love and matrimony, not to be pleased with 
so gallant a cavalier. 

The late hour at which the guest had arrived, left no 
time for parley. The Baron was peremptory, and deferred 
all particular conversation until the morning, and led the 
way to the untasted banquet. 

It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around 
the walls hung the hard-favored portraits of the heroes 
of the house of Katzenellenbogen, and the trophies which 
they had gained in the field and in the chase. Hacked 
croslets, splintered jousting spears, and tattered banners, 
were mingled with the spoils of sylvan warfare: the jaws of 
the wolf, and the tusks of the boar, grinned horribly among 
crossbows and battle-axes, and a huge pair of antlers 
branched immediately over the head of the youthful bride- 
groom. 

The cavalier took but little notice of the comp.my or the 
entertainment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, but seemed 



TEE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 14? 

absorbed in admiration of his bride. He conversed in a 
low tone, that could not be overheard — for the language of 
love is never loud; but where is the female ear so dull that 
it cannot catch the softest whisper of the lover? There 
was a mingled tenderness and gravity in his manner that 
appeared to have a powerful effect upon the young lady. 
Her color came and went as she listened with deep atten*- 
tion. Now and then she made some blushing reply, and 
when his eye was turned away, she would steal a sidelong 
glance at his romantic countenance, and heave a gentle 
sigh of tender happiness. It M-as evident that the young 
couple were completely enamoured. The aunts, who were 
deeply versed in the mysteries of the heart, declared that 
they had fallen in love with each other at first sight. 

The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the 
guests were all blessed with those keen appetites that at- 
tend upon light purses and mountain air. The Baron told 
his best and longest stories, and never had he told them so 
well, or with such great effect. If there was anything 
marvellous, his auditors were lost in astonishment: and if 
anything facetious, they were sure to laugh exactly in the 
right place. The Baron, it is true, like most great men, 
was too dignified to utter any joke but a dull one; it was 
always enforced, however, by a bumjJer of excellent Hoch- 
heimer; and even a dull joke, at one's own table, served up 
with jolly old wine, is irresistible. Many good things were 
said by poorer and keener wits, that would not bear repeat- 
ing, except on similar occasions; many sly speeches whis- 
pered in ladies' ears, that almost convulsed them with sup- 
pressed laughter; and a song or two roared out by a poor, 
but merry and broad-faced cousin of the Baron, that abso- 
lutely made the maiden aunts hold up their fans. 

Amidst all this revelry, the stranger guest maintained a 
most singular and unseasonable gravity. His countenance 
assumed a deeper cast of dejection as the evening advanced, 
and, strange as it may appear, even the Baron's jokes 
seemed only to render him the more melancholy. At times 
he was los*^^ m thought, and at times there was a perturbed 
and restless wandering of the eye that bespoke a mind but 
ill at ease. His conversation with the bride became more 
and more earnest and mysterious. Lowering clouds began 
to steal over the fair serenity of her brow, and tremors to 
run through her tender frame. 



148 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

All this could not escape the notice of the company. 
Their gayety was chilled by the unaccountable gloom of the 
bridegroom; their spirits were infected; whispers and 
glances were interchanged, accompanied by shrugs and 
dubious shakes of the head. The song and the laugh grew 
less and less frequent; there were dreary pauses in the con- 
versation, which were at length succeeded by wild tales, 
and supernatural legends. One dismal story produced 
another still more dismal, and the Baron nearly frightened 
some of the ladies into hysterics with the history of the 
goblin horseman that carried away the fair Leonora — a 
dreadful, but true story, which has since been put into ex- 
cellent verse, and is read and believed by all the world. 

The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound atten- 
tion. He kept his eyes steadily fixed on the Baron, and as 
the story drew to a close, began gradually to rise from his 
seat, growing taller and taller, until, in the Baron's en- 
tranced eye, he seemed almost to tower into a giant. 
The moment the tale was finished, he heaved a deep sigh, 
and took a solemn farewell of the company. Theyja^ere 
all amazement. The Baron was perfectly thunderstruck. 

'" What! going to leave the castle at midnight? why, 
everything was prepared for his reception; a chamber was 
ready for him if he wished to retire." 

The stranger shook his head mournfully, and mys- 
teriously; '' I must lay my head in a different chamber to- 
night!" 

There was something in this reply, and the tone in which 
it was uttered, that made the Baron's heart misgive him; 
but he rallied his forces, and repeated his hospitable en- 
treaties. The stranger shook his head silently, but posi- 
tively, at every offer; and waving his farewell to the com- 
pany, stalked slowly out of the hall. The maiden aunts 
were absolutely petrified — the bride hung her head, and a 
tear stole to her eye. 

The Baron followed the stranger to the great court of 
the castle, where the black charger stood pawing the earth, 
and snorting with impatience. When they had reached the 
portal, whose deep archway was dimly lighted by a cresset, 
the stranger paused, and addressed the Baron in a hollow 
tone of voice, which the vaulted roof rendered still more 
sepulchral. " Now that we are alone," said he, " I will 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 149 

impart to yon the reason of my going. I have a solemn, 
an indispensable engagement — " 

" Why/' said the Baron, "cannot you send some one in 
your place?" 

" It admits of no substitute — I must attend it in person — 
I must away to Wurtzburg cathedral — " 

"Ay," said the Baron, plucking up spirit, "but nof. 
until to-morrow — to-morrow you shall take your bride 
there." 

"No! no!" replied the stranger, with tenfold solemnity, 
*'my engagement is with no bride — the worms! the worms 
expect me! I am a dead man — I have been slain by robbers 
— my body lies at Wurtzburg — at midnight I am to be 
buried — the grave is waiting for me — I must keep my ap- 
pointment!" 

He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the draw- 
bridge, and the clattering of his horse's hoofs was lost in 
the whistling of the night-blast. 

The Baron returned to the hall in the utmost consterna- 
tion, and related what had passed. Two ladies fainted out- 
right; others sickened at the idea of having banquetted with 
a spectre. It was the opinion of some, that this might be 
the wild huntsman famous in German legend. Some talked 
of mountain sprites, of wood demons, and of other super- 
natural beings, with which the good people of Germany 
have been so grievously harassed since time immemorial. 
One of the poor relations ventured to suggest that it might 
be some sportive evasion of the young cavalier, and that 
the very gloominess of tlie caprice seemed to accord Avith 
so melancholy a personage. This, however, drew on him 
the indignation of the whole company, and especially oi 
the Baron, who looked upon him as little better than an 
infidel; so that he was fain to abjure his heresy as speedily 
as possible, and come into the faith of the true believers. 

But, whatever may have been the doubts entertained, 
they were completely put to an end by the arrival, next 
day, of regular missives, confirming the intelligence of the 
young Count's murder, and his interment in Wurtzburg 
cathedral. 

The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The 
Baron shut himself up in his chamber. The guests who 
had come to rejoice with him, could not think of abandon- 



150 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ing him in his distress. They wandered about the courts, 
or collected in groups in the hall, shaking their heads and 
shrugging their shoulders, at the troubles of so good a 
man; and sat longer than ever at table, and ate and drank 
more stoutly than ever, by way of keeping up their spirits. 
But the situation of the widowed bride was the most piti- 
able. To have lost a husband before she had even em- 
braced him — and such a husl)aiul! if tlie very spectre could 
be so gracious and noble, what must have been the living 
man? She tilled the house with lamentations. 

On the night of the second day of her widowhood, she 
had retired to her chamber, accompanied by one of her 
aunts, who insisted on sleeping with her. The aunt, who 
was one of the best tellers of ghost stories in all Germany, 
had just been recounting one of her longest, and had fallen 
asleep in the very midst of it. The chamber was remote, 
and overlooked a small garden. The niece lay pensively 
gazing at the beams of the rising moon, as they trembled 
on the leaves of an aspen tree before tlie lattice. The castle 
clock had Just told midniglit, when a soft strain of mnsic 
■stole up from the garden. She rose hastily from her bed 
and stepped lightly to the window. A tall figure stood 
among the shadows of the trees. As it raised its head, a 
beam of moonlight fell upon its countenance. Heaven 
and earth! she beheld the Spectre Bridegroom! A loud 
shriek at that moment burst upon her ear, and her aunt, 
who had been awakened by the music, and had followed 
her silently to the window, fell into her arms. When she 
looked again, the spectre had disappeared. 

Of the two females, the aunt now required the most 
soothing, for she was perfectly beside herself with terror. 
As to the young lady, there was something, even in the 
spectre of her lover, that seemed endearing. There was 
still the semblance of manly beauty; and though the shadow 
of a man is but little calculated to satisfy the affections of 
a love-sick girl, yet, Avhere the substance is not to be had. 
2ven that is consoling. The aunt declared she wouhl 
never sleep in that chamber again; the niece, for once, was 
refractory, and declared as strongly that she would sleep 
in no other in the castle; the consequence was, that she Iwid 
to sleep in it alone; but she drew a promise from her ani.t 
not to relate the story of the spectre, lest she should be 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 151 

denied the only melancholy pleasure left her ou earth — that 
of inhabiting the chamber over which the guardian shade 
of her lover kept its nightly vigils. 

How long the good old lady would have observed this 
promise is uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the 
marvellous, and there is a triumph in being the first to tell 
a frightful story; it is, however, still quoted in the neigh- 
borhood, as a memorable instance of female secrecy, that 
she kept it to herself for a whole week; Avhen she was sud- 
denly absolved from all farther restraint by intelligence 
brought to the breakfast-table one morning that the young 
lady was not to be found, llor room was empty — the bed 
had not been slept in — the window was open — and the bird 
had flown! 

The astonishment and concern with which the intelli- 
gence was received, can only be imagined by those who 
have witnessed the agitation which the mishaps of a great 
man cause among his friends. Even the poor relations 
paused for a moment from the indefatigable labors of the 
trencher; when the aunt, who had at first been struck 
speechless, wrung her hands and shrieked out, "The goblin! 
the goblin! she's carried away by the goblin!" 

In a few words she related the fearful scene of the gar- 
den, and concluded that the spectre must have carried off 
his bride. Two of the domestics corroborated the opinion, 
for they had heard the clattering of a horse's hoofs down 
the mountain about midnight, and had no doubt that it 
was the spectre on his black charger, bearing her away to 
the tomb. All present were struck with the direful prob- 
ability; for events of the kind are extremely common in 
Germany, as many well-authenticated histories bear wit- 
ness. 

What a lamentable situation was that of the poor Baron! 
What a heart-rending dilemma for a fond father, and a 
member of the great family of Katzenellenbogen! His 
only daughter had either been wrapt away to the grave, or 
he was to have some wood-demon for a son-in-law, and 
perchance, a troop of goblin grandchildren. As usual, he 
was completely bewildered, and all the castle in an uproar. 
The men were ordered to take horse, and scour every road 
and path and glen of the Odenwald. The Baron himself 
had just drawn ou his jack-boots, girded on his sword, and 



152 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

was about to mouut his steed to sally fortli on the doubtful 
quest, when be was brought to a pause by a new apparition. 
A lady was seen apiiroaching the castle, mounted on a pal- 
frey, attended by a cavalier on horseback. She galloped 
up to the gate, sprang from her horse, and fjilling at the 
Baron's feet embraced his knees. It was his lost daughter, 
and her companion — the Spectre Bridegroom! The Baron 
was astounded. He looked at his daughter, then at the 
Spectre, and almost doubted the evidence of his senses. 
The latter, too, was wonderfully improved in his appear- 
ance, since his visit to the world of spirits. His dress was 
splendid, and set off a noble figure of manly symmetry. 
He was no longer pale and melancholy. His fine counte- 
nance was flushed with the glow of youth, and joy rioted ii 
his large dark eye. 

The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for in 
truth, as you must have known all the while, he was no 
goblin) announced himself as Sir Herman Von Starken- 
faust. He related his adventure with the young count. 
He told how he had hastened to the castle to deliver the 
unwelcome tidings, but that the eloquence of the Baron 
had interrupted him in every attempt to tell his tale. How 
the sight of the bride had completely captivated him, and 
that to pass a few hours near her, he had tacitly suffered 
the mistake to continue. How he had been sorely per- 
plexed in what way to make a decent retreat, until the 
Baron's goblin stories had suggested his eccentric exit. 
How, fearing the feudal hostility of the family, he had re- 
peated his visits by stealth — had haunted the garden 
Beneath the young lady's window — had wooed — had won — 
had borne away in triumph — and, in a word, had wedded 
the fair one. 

Under any other circumstances, the Baron would have 
Ven inflexible, for he was tenacious of paternal authority, 
and devoutly obstinate in all family feuds; but he loved 
his daughter; he had lamented her as lost; he rejoiced to 
find her still alive; and, though her husband was of a hos- 
tile house, yet, thank Heaven, he was not a goblin. There 
was something, it must be acknowledged, that did not ex- 
actly accord with his notions of strict veracity, in the joke 
the knight had passed upon him of his being a dead man; 
but several old friends present, who had served in the wars, 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. J53 

assured him that every stratagem was excusable in love, 
and that the cavalier was entitled to especial privilege, 
having lately served as a trooper. 

Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The Baron 
pardoned the young couple on the spot. The revels at the 
castle were resumed. The poor relations overwhelmed 
this new member of the family with loving-kindness; ho 
was so gallant, so generous — and so rich. The aunts, it is 
true, were somewhat scandalized that their system of strict 
seclusion, and passive obedience, should be so badly exem- 
plified, but attributed it all to their negligence in not 
having the windows grated. One of them was particularly 
mortified at having her marvellous story marred, and that 
the only spectre she had ever seen should turn out a coun- 
terfeit; but the niece seemed perfectly happy at having 
found him substantial flesh and blood — and so the story 
ends. 



154 THE aKETVH-BOOK. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

When 1 behold, with deep astonishment, 
To famous Westminster how there resorte, 
Living in brasse or stony monument, 
The princes and the wortliies of all sorte; 
Doe not I see reformde nobilitie. 
Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation. 
And looke upon offenseless majesty, 
Naked of pomp or earthly domination V 
And how a play-game of a painted stone 
Contents the cjuiet now and silent sprites, 
Whome all the world which late they stood upon, 
C-ould not content nor quench their appetites. 
Life is a frost of cold felicitie. 
And death the thaw of all our vanitie. 

Ghristolero's Epigrams, by T. B. 1598. __ 

Oy one of these sober and rather melancholy days, in the 
latter part of autumn, when the shadows of morning and 
evening almost mingle together, and throw a gloom over 
the decline of the year, I passed several hours in rambling 
about Westminster Abbey. There was something conge- 
nial to the season in the mournful magniticence of the old 
pile; and as I passed its threshold, it seemed like stepping 
back into the regions of antiquity, and losing myself among 
the shades of former ages. 

I entered from the inner court of Westminster school, 
through a long, low, vaulted passage, that had an almost 
subterranean look, being dindy lighted in one part by cir- 
cuLar perforations in the nuissive walls. Throngh this dark 
avenue I had a distant view of the cloisters, Avith the figure 
of an old verger, in his black gown, moving slowly along 
their shadowy vaults, and seeming like a spectre from one 
of the neighboring tombs. 

The approach to the abbey through these gloomy monas- 
tic remains prepares the mind for its solemn contemplation. 
The cloister still retains something of the quiet and seclu- 
sion of former days. The gray walls are discolored by 
damps, and crumbling with age; a coat of hoary mose has 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 155 

gathered over the inscriptions of the mural monuments, 
Hud obscured the death's-heads, and other funeral emblems. 
The sharp touches of the chisel are gone from the rich 
tracei'y of the arclies; the roses which adorned the key- 
stones have lost their leafy beauty; everything bears marks 
of the gradual dilapidations of time, which yet has some- 
thing touching and pleasing in its very decay. 

The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into 
the square of the cloisters; beaming upon a scanty plot of 
grass in the centre, and lighting up an angle of the vaulted 
passage with a kind of dusty splendor. From between the 
arcades, the eye glanced up to a bit of blue sky, or a pass- 
ing cloud; and beheld the sun-gilt pinnacles of the abbey 
towering into tlie azure heaven. 

As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this 
mingled picture of glory and decay, and sometimes endeav- 
oring to decipher the inscriptions on the tombstones, 
vdiich formed tlie pavement beneath my feet, my eyes were 
attracted to three figures, rudely carved in relief, but 
nearly worn away by the footsteps of many generations. 
They were the eiligies of three of the early abbots; the epi- 
taphs were entirely effaced; the names alone remained, 
having no doubt been renewed in later times; (Vitalis. Ab- 
bas. 1085i, and Gislebertus Crispinns. Abbas. 1114, and 
Laurentius. Abbas. 117(\) I remained some little while, 
musing over these casual relics of antiquity, thus left like 
wrecks upon this distant shore of time, telling no tale but 
that such beings had been and had perished; teaching no 
moral but the futility of that pride which hopes still to exact 
homage in its ashes, and to live in an inscription. A little 
longer, and even these faint records will be obliterated, and 
the monument will cease to be a memorial. Whilst I was 
yet looking down upon the gravestones, I was roused by 
the sound of the abbey clock, reverberating from buttress 
to buttress, and echoing among the cloisters. It is almost 
startling to hear this warning of departed time sounding 
among the tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour, which, 
like a billow, has rolled us onward towards the grave. 

I pursued my walk to an arched door opening to the in- 
terior of tlie abbey. On entering here, the magnitude of 
tlie building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted with 
the vaults of the cloisters. The eye gazea with wonder ftt 



156 THE SKBTGH-BOOK. 

cludtered columns of gigantic dimensions, with arches 
springing from them to such an amazing height; and man, 
wandering about their bases, shrunk into insignificance in 
comparison with his own handy-work. The spaciousness 
and gloom of this vast edifice produce a profound and mys- 
terious awe. We step cautiously and softly about, as if 
fearful of disturbing the hallowed silence of the tomb; 
while every footfall whispers along the walls, and chatters 
among the sepulchres, making us more sensible of the quiet 
we have interrupted. 

It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down 
upon the soul, and hushes the beholder into noiseless rev- 
erence. We feel that we are surrounded by the congre- 
gated bones of the great men of past times, wbo have filled 
history with their deeds, and the earth with their renown. 
And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of liumau 
ambition, to see how they are crowded together, and justled 
in the dust; what parsimony is observed in doling out a 
scanty nook — a gloomy corner — a little portion of earth, to 
those whom, when alive, kingdoms could not satisfy: and 
how many shapes, and forms, and artifices, are devised to 
catch the casual notice of the passenger, and save from for- 
getfulness, for a few short years, a name Avhich once aspired 
to occupy ages of the Avorld's thought and admiration. 

I passed some time in Poet's Corner, which occupies an 
end of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the abbey. 
The monuments are generally simple; for the lives of liter- 
ary men afford no striking themes for a sculptor, Shaks- 
peare and Addison have statues erected to their memories; 
but the greater part have busts, medallions, and sometimes 
mere inscriptions. Notwithstanding the simplicity of 
these memorials, I have always observed that the visitoi-s 
to the abbey remain longest about them. A kinder and 
fonder feeling takes place of that cold curiosity or vague 
admiration with which they gaze on the splendid monu- 
ments of the great and the heroic. They linger about 
these as about the tombs of friends and companions; for 
indeed there is something of companionship between the 
author and the reader. Other men are known to posterity 
only through the medium of history, which is continually 
growing faint and obscure: but the intercourse between the 
author and his fellow-men is ever new, active, and immedi- 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. I57 

ate. He has lived for them more than for himself; he has 
sa("rifir('<l Hnn-mimliiig enjoyments, and ^\\\\i himself np 
from tlie delights of sooial life, that he might the more in- 
timately commune with distant minds and distant ages. 
Well may the world cherish his renown; for it luis been 
purcliased, not by deeds of violence and blood, but by the 
diligei\t disi>eusation of ])leasnre. Well may posterity be 
grateful to his memory; for he has left it an inheritance, 
not of empty names and sounding actions, but whole treas- 
ures of wisdom, bright gems of thought, and golden veins 
of language. 

From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll towards that 
part of the abbey which contains the sepulchres of the kings. 
1 wandered among what once were chapels, but which are 
now occupied by the tombs and monuments of the great. 
At every turn, 1 met with some illustrious name, or the 
cognizance of some powerful house renowned in history. 
As the eye darts into these dusky chambers of death, it 
catches glimpses of quaint effigies; some kneeling in niches, 
as if in devotion; others stretched upon the tombs, with 
hands piously pressed together; warriors in armor, as if re- 
posing after battle; prelates, with crosiers and mitres; and 
nobles in robes and coronets, lying as it were in state. In 
glancing over this scene, so strangely populous, yet where 
evez'y form is so still and silent, it seems almost as if we 
were treading a mansion of that fabled city, where every 
being had been suddenly transmuted into stone. 

1 paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the effigy 
of a knight in complete armor. A large buckler was on 
one arm; the hands were pressed together in supplication 
upon the breast; the face was almost covered by the 
morion; the legs were crossed, in token of the warrior's 
having been engaged in the holy war. It was the tomb of 
a. crusader; of one of those military enthusiasts, who so 
strangely mingled religion and romance, and whose exploits 
form the connecting link between fact and fiction — between 
the history and the fairy tale. There is something ex- 
tremely picturesque in the tombs of these adventurers, dec- 
orated as they are with rude armorial bearings and Gothic 
sculpture. They comport with tiie antiquated chapels in 
which they are generally found; and in cojisidering them, 
the imagination is apt to kindle with the legendary associ- 



158 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ations, the romantic fictions, the chivalrous pomp and pag- 
eantry, whii'h has spead ovor the \Yars for tlio So|nilohro 
of Christ. They are the relics of times utterly goi\e by; 
of beiuiis pai^^ed from reoollection; of customs and man- 
ners witli which ours have no atlinity. They are like objects 
from some stnvjige and distant land of which we have no 
certain knowledge, and about which all our conceptions are 
vague and visionary. There is something extremely solemn 
and awful in those elegies on Gothic tombs, extended as if 
in the sleep of death, or in the supplication of the dying 
hour. They have an effect intinitely more impressive on 
my feelings than the fanciful attitudes, the overwrought 
conceits, and allegorical groups, which abound on modern 
monuments. I have been struck, also with the superiority 
of many of the old sepulchral inscriptions. There was a 
noble way. in former times, of saying things simply, and 
yet staying them proudly: and I do not know an epitaph 
that breathes a loftier consciousness of family worth and 
honorable lineage, than one which athrms, of a noble house, 
that "all the brothers were brave, and all the sisters vir- 
tuous." 

In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner, stands a monu- 
ment which is among the most renowned achievements of 
modern art; but which, to me. appears horrible rather than 
sublime. It is the tomb of Mrs. rsightingale. by Koubillae. 
The bottom of the monument is represented as throwing 
open its marble doors, and a sheeted skeleton is starting forth 
The shroud is falling from liis tleshlcss frame as lie launches 
his dart at his victim. She is sinking into her affrighted 
husband's arms, who strives, with vain and frantic effort, 
to avert the blow. The whole is executed with terrible 
truth and spirit; we almost fancy we hear the gibbering 
yell of triumph, bursting from the distended jaws of the 
Bpectre. — But why should we thus seek to clothe death 
with unnecessiiry terrors, and to spread horrors around the 
tomb of those we love? The grave should be surrounded 
by every thing that might inspire tenderness and veneration 
for the dead; or that might win the living to virtue. It is 
the place, not of disgust and dismay, but of sorrow and 
meditation. 

While wandering about these gloomy vaults and silent 
aisles, studying the records of the dead, the sound of busy 



WEHTMTIfHTER ABBKT. 159 

exi«tence from without occasionally reaches the ear:— the 
ruroMlnr^of the pa',;in^ oquipa;^e; the murmur of the multi- 
tude; or perhaps the light laugh of pleasure. The contrast 
iH iitrikinj? with the deathlike repose around; and it has a 
Htrange effect upon the feelingH, thus to hear the surges of 
activij life hurrying along and heating against the very 
wallrt of the Hepulchre. 

1 f;ontinued in this way to move from tomb to tomb, nnd 
from chapel to chapel. The day was gradually wearing 
away; the distant trea<J of loiterers about the abbey grew 
less and less frequent; the sweet-tongued bell was summon- 
ing to eveninc prayers; and 1 saw at a distance the chori.-;- 
t/Crs, in their white surplices, crossing the aisle and enter- 
ing the choir. I stood before the entrance to Henry the 
Seventh's chapel. A flight of steps leads up to it, through 
a deep and gloomy, but magnificent arch. Great gates of 
brass, richly and delicately wrought, turn heavily upon 
their hinges, as if proudly reluctant to admit the feet of 
common mortals into this most gorgeous of sepulchres. 

On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of archi- 
tecture, and tlie elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The 
very walls are wrought into universal ornament, encrusted 
with tracery, and scooped into niches, crowded with the 
statues of saints and martyrs. Stone seems by the cunning 
labor of the chisel, to have been robbed of its weight and 
density, suspended aloft, as if by magic, and the fretted 
roof achieved with the wonderful minuteness and airy secur- 
ity of a cobweb. 

Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the 
Knights of the Ba.th, richly carved of oak, though with the 
groste.sque decorations of Gothic architecture. On the pin- 
)iacl"H of the stalls are afKxed the helmets and crests of the 
knights, with their scarfs and swords; and above them 
are suspended tlieir banners, emblazoned with armorial 
bearings, and contrasting the splendor of gold and purple 
and crimson, with the cold gray fretwork of the roof. In 
the midst of this grand mausoleum stands the sepulchre of 
its founder, — his effigy, with that of his queen, extended 
on a sumptuous tomb, and the whole surrounded by a 
superbly wrought brazen railing. 

There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence: this 
strange mixture of tombs and trophies; these emblems of 



160 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

living and aspiring ambition, close beside mementos which 
show the dust and oblivion in which all must sooner or 
later terminate. Nothing impresses the mind with a deeper 
feeling of loneliness, than to tread the silent and deserted 
scene of former throng and pageant. On looking round 
on the vacant stalls of the knights and their esquires, and 
on the rows of dusty, but gorgeous banners that were once 
borne before them, my iuiagination conjured up the scene 
when this hall was bright with the valor and beauty of the 
land; glittering with the splendor of jewelled rank and mil- 
itary array; alive with the tread of man}' feet, and the hum 
of an admiring multitude. All had passed away; the 
silence of death had settled again upon the place; inter- 
rupted only by the casual chirping of birds, which had 
found their way into the chapel, and built their nests 
among its friezes and pendants — sure signs of solitariness 
and desertion. When I read the names inscribed on the 
banners, they were those of men scattered far and wide 
about the world; some tossing upon distant seas; some un- 
der arms in distant lands; some mingling in the busy in- 
trigues of courts and cabinets; all seeking to deserve one more 
distinction in this mansion of shadowy honors — the melan- 
choly reward of a moimment. 

Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a 
touching instance of the equality of the grave, which brings 
down the oppressor to a level with the oppressed, and min- 
gles the dust of the bitterest enemies together. In one is 
the sepulchre of the haughty Elizabeth; in the other is that 
of her victim, the lovely and unfortunate Mary. Not an 
hour in the day, but some ejaculation of pity is uttered 
over the fate of the latter, mingled with indignation at her 
oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth's sepulchre continually 
echo with the sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave of her 
rival. 

A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary 
lies buried. The light struggles dimly through windows 
darkened by dust. The greater part of the place is in deep 
shadow, and the walls are stained and tinted by time and 
weather. A marble figure of Mary is stretched upon the 
tomb, round which is an iron railing, much corroded, bear- 
ing her national emblem — the tliistie. I was weary with 
wandering, and sat down to rest myself by the monument. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 161 

revolving in my mind the checkered and disastrous story 
of poor Mary. 

The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey. 
I could only hear, now and tlien, the distant voice of the 
priest repeating the evening service, and the faint responses 
of the choir; these paused for a time, and all was hushed. 
The stillness, the desertion and obscurity that were grad- 
ually prevailing around, gave a deeper and more solemn 
interest to the place: 

For in the silent grave no conversation, 
No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, 
No careful father's counsel — nothing's heard. 
For nothing is, but all oblivion, 
Dust, and an endless darkness. 

Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst upon 
tlie ear, falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and 
rolling, as it were, huge billows of sound. How well do 
their volume and grandeur accord with this mighty build- 
ing! With what pomp do they swell through its vast 
vaults, and breathe their awful harmony through these 
caves of death, and make the silent sepulchre vocal! — And 
now they rise in triumphant acclamation, heaving higher 
and higher their accordant notes, and piling sound on 
sound. — And now they pause, and the soft voices of the 
choir break out into sweet gushes of melody; they soar 
aloft, and warble along the roof, and seem to play about 
these lofty vaults like the pure airs of heaven. Again the 
pealing organ heaves its thrilling thunders, compressing air 
into music, and rolling it forth upon the soul. What long- 
drawn cadences! What solemn sweeping concords! It 
grows more and more dense and powerful — it fills the vast 
j)ile, and seems to jar the very walls — the ear is stunned — 
the senses are overwhelmed. And now it is winding up in 
full jubilee — it is rising from the earth to heaven — the veiy 
soul seems rapt away, and floated upwards on this swelling 
tide of harmony! 

I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a 
strain of music is apt sometimes to inspire: the shadows of 
evening were gradually thickening around me; the monu- 
ments began to cast deeper and deeper gloom; and the dis- 
tant clock again gave token of the slowly waning day. 



162 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

I arose, and prepared to leave the abbey. As I descended 
the flight of steps wliich lead into the body of the building, 
my eye was caught by the shrine of Edward the Confessor, 
and I ascended the small staircase that conducts to it, to 
take from thence a general survey of this wilderness of 
tombs. The shrine is elevated upon a kind of platform, 
and close around it are the sepulchres of various kings and 
queens. From this eminence the eye looks down between 
pillars and funeral trophies to the chapels and chambers 
below, crowded with tombs; Avhere warriors, prelates cour- 
tiers, and statesmen, lie mouldering in "their beds of dark- 
ness." Close by me stood the great chair of coronation, 
rudely carved of oak, in the barbarous taste of a remote 
and Gothic age. The scene seemed almost as if contrived, 
with theatrical artifice, to produce an effect upon the be- 
liolder. Here was a type of the beginning aud the end of 
human pomp and power; here it was literally but a step 
from the throne to the sepulchre. Would not one think 
that these incongruous mementos had been gathered to- 
gether as a lesson to living greatness? — to show it, even4ii 
the moment of its proudest exaltation, the neglect and dis- 
honor to which it must soon arrive? how soon that crown 
which encircles its broAV must i)ass away; and it must lie 
down in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, and be trampled 
upon by the feet of the meanest of the multitude? For, 
strange to tell, even the grave is here no longer a sanctuary. 
There is a shocking levity in some natures, which leads 
them to sport with awful and hallowed things; and there 
are base minds, which delight to revenge on tlie illustrious 
dead the abject homage and grovelling servility which they 
pay to the living. The coffin of EdAvard the Confessor has 
been broken open, and his remains despoiled of tiieir fu- 
iieral ornaments; the sceptre has been stolen from the hand 
of the imperious Elizabeth, and the effigy of Henry the 
Fifth lies headless. Not a royal monument but bears some 
proof how false and fugitive is the homage of mankind. 
Some are plundered; some mutihited; some covei-ed with 
ribaldry and insult — all more or less outraged aud dishon- 
ored. 

The last beams of day were now faintly streaming through 
the painted windows in the higli vaults above uie; the lov.-er 
parts of the abbey were already wrapped in the obscurity of 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 163 

twilight. The chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. 
The effigies of the kings faded into shadows; the marble 
figures of the monuments assumed strange shapes in the 
uncertain light; the evening breeze crept through the aisles 
like the cold breath of the grave; and even the distant foot- 
fall of the verger, traversing the Poet's Corner, had some- 
thing strange and dreary in its sound. I slowly retraced 
my morning's walk, and as I passed out at the portal of the 
cloisters, the door closing with a jai'ring noise behind me, 
filled the whole building with echoes. 

I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of 
the objects I had been contemplating, but found they were 
already falling into indistinctness and confusion. Names, 
inscriptions, trophies, had all become confounded in my 
recollection, though I had scarcely taken my foot from oft" the 
threshold. What, thought I, is this vast assemblage of 
sepulchres but a treasury of humiliation; a huge pile of re- 
iterated homilies on the emptiness of renown, and the cer- 
tainty of oblivion? It is, indeed, the empire of Death; his 
great shadowy palace; where he sits in state, mocking at 
the relics of human glory, and spreading dust and forget- 
fulness on the monuments of princes. How idle a boast, 
after all, is the immortality of a name! Time is ever silently 
turning over his pages; we are too much engrossed by the 
story of the present, to think of the characters and anec- 
dotes that give interest to the past; and each age is a vol- 
ume thrown aside to be speedily forgotten. The idol of 
to-day pushes the hero of yesterday out of our recollection; 
and will, in turn, be supplanted by his successor of to-mor- 
row. ''Our fathers," says Sir Thomas Brown, "find their 
graves in our short memories, and sadly tell us how we may 
e buried in our survivors." History fades into fable; fact 
becomes clouded with doubt and controversy; the inscrip- 
tion moulders from the tablet; the statue falls from the 
pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they but 
heaps of sand — and their epitaphs, but characters written 
in the dust.? What is the security of a tomb, or the per- 
petuity of an embalmment? The remains of Alexander 
the Great have been scattered to the wind, and his empty 
sarcophagus is now the mere curiosity of a museum. " The 
Egyptian mummies which Cambyses or time hath spared. 



164 THE BEETCE-BOOK. 

avarice now consnmeth; Mizraim cures wounds, and Pha- 
raoh is sold for balsams."* 

What then is to insure this pile, which now towers above 
me, from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums? The 
time must come when its gilded vaults which now spring so 
loftily, shall lie in rubbish beneath the feet; when, instead 
of the sound of melody and praise, the winds shall whistle 
through the broken arches, and the owl hoot from the 
shattered tower — when the garish sunbeam shall break into 
these gloomy mansions of death; and the ivy twine round 
the fallen column; and the fox-glove hand its blossoms 
about the nameless urn, as if in mockery of the dead. 
Thus man passes away; his name passes from recollection; 
his history is a tale that is told, and his very monument 
becomes a ruin. 

* Sir Thomas Brown. 



CHRISTMAS. 165 



CHRISTMAS. 

But is old old, good old Christmas gone ? Nothing but the hair on 
his good, gray, old head and beard left? Well, I will have that, see- 
ine 1 cannot have more of him. 

^ Hue and Cry afteb Christmas. 

A man might then behold 

At Christmas, in each hall, 
Good fires to curb the cold, 

And meat for great and small. 
The neighbors were friendly bidden. 

And all had welcome true. 
The poor from the gates were not chidden, 

When this old cap was new. 

Old Song. 

There is nothing in England that exercises a more de- 
lightful spell over my imagination than the lingenngs of 
the holiday customs and rural games of former times. 
They recall the pictures my fancy used to draw m the May 
morning of life, when as yet I only knew the world 
through books, and believed it to be all that poets had 
painted it; and they bring with them the flavor of those 
honest days of yore, in which, perhaps with equal fallacy, 
I am apt to think the world was more homebred, social, 
and joyous than at present. I regret to say that they are 
daily growing more and more faint, being gradually worn 
away by time, but still more obliterated by modern fashion. 
They resemble those picturesque morsels of Gothic archi- 
tecture, which we see crumbling in various parts of the 
country, partly dilapidated by the waste of ages, and partly 
lost in the additions and alterations of latter days. Poetry, 
however, clings with cherishing fondness about the rural 
game and holiday revel, from which it has derived so many 
of its themes— as the ivy winds its rich foliage about the 
Gothic arch and mouldering tower, gratefully repaying 
their support, by clasping together their tottering remains, 
and, as it were, embalming them in verdure. 



166 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awak- 
ens the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There 
is a tone of solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our 
conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and 
elevated enjoyment. The services of the church about this 
season are extremely tender and inspiring: they dwell on 
the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and the pas- 
toral scenes that accompanied its announcement ; they 
gradually increase in fervor and pathos during the season 
of Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the 
morning that brought peace and good-will to men. I do 
not know a grander effect of music on the moral feelings 
than to hear the full choir and the pealing organ perform- 
ing a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and filling every 
part of the vast pile with triumphant harmony. 

It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from the days 
of yore, that this festival, which commemorates the an- 
nouncement of the religion of peace and love, has been 
made the season for gathering together of family connec- 
tions, and drawing closer again those bands of kindred 
hearts, which the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the 
world are continually operating to cast loose; of calling 
back the children of a family, who have launched forth in 
life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble 
about the paternal hearth, that rallying-place of the affec- 
tions, there to grow young and loving again among the 
endearing mementos of childhood. 

There is something in the very season of the j^ear, that 
gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times, 
we derive a great portion of our pleasures from the mere 
beauties of Nature. Our feelings sally forth and dissipate 
themselves over the sunny landscape, and Ave "live abroad 
and everywhere." The song of the bird, the murmur of 
the stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, the soft vo- 
luptuousness of summer, the golden pomp of autumn ; 
earth with its mantle of refreshing green, and heaven with 
its deep, delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence, — all fill 
us with mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in the lux- 
ury of mere sensation. But in the depth of winter, when 
Nature lies despoiled of every charm, and wrapped in her 
shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our gratifications to 
moral sources. The dreariness and desolation of our land- 



CHRISTMAS. 167 

soape, the short gloomy days and darksome nights, while 
they circumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also 
from rambling abroad, and make us more keenly disposed 
for the pleasures of the social circle. Our thoughts are 
more concentrated; our friendly sympathies more aroused. 
We feel more sensibly the charm of each other's society, 
and are brought more closely together by dependence on 
each other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart, and 
we draw our pleasures from the deep wells of living kind- 
ness which lie in tlie quiet recesses of our bosoms; and 
which, when resorted to, furnish forth the pure element of 
domestic felicity. 

The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on 
entering the room filled with the glow and warmth of the 
evening fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial sum- 
mer and sunshine through the room, and lights up each 
countenance with a kindlier welcome. Where does the 
honest face of hospitality expand into a broader and more 
cordial smile — where is the shy glance of love more sweetly 
eloquent — than by the winter fireside? and as the hollow 
blast of wintry wind rushes through the hall, claps the 
distant door, whistles about the casement, and rumbles 
down the chimney, what can be more grateful than that 
feeling of sober and sheltered security, with which we look 
around upon the comfortable chamber, and the scene of 
domestic hilarity? 

The English, from the great prevalence of rural habits 
throughout every class of society, have always been fond uL' 
those festivals and holidays which agreeably interrupt the 
stillness of country life; and they were in former days par- 
ticularly observant of the religious and social rights of 
Christmas. It is inspiring to read even the dry details 
wliich some antiquaries have given of the quaint humors, 
the burlesque pageants, the complete abandonment to 
mirth and good fellowship, with which this festival was 
celebrated. It seemed to throw open every door, unlock 
every heart. It brought the peasant and tlie peer together, 
and blended all ranks in one warm generous flow of joy and 
kindness. The old halls of castles and manor-houses re- 
sounded with the harp and the Christmas carol, and their 
ample boards groaned under the weight of hospitality. 
JSven the poorest cottage welcomed the festive season with 



168 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

green decorations of bay and holly — the cheerful fire glanced 
its rays through the lattice, inviting the passenger to raise 
the latch, and join the gossip knot huddled round the 
hearth beguiling the long evening with legendary jokes, 
and oft-told Christmas tales. 

One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is 
the havoc it has made among the hearty old holiday cus- 
toms. It has completely taken off the sharp touchings and 
spirited reliefs of these embellishments of life, and has 
worn down society into a more smooth and polished, but cer- 
tainly a less characteristic surface. Many of the games 
and ceremonials of Christmas have entirely disappeared, 
and, like the sherris sack of old Falstaff, are become matters 
of speculation and dispute among commentators. They 
flourished in times full of spirit and lustihood, when men 
enjoyed life roughly, but heartily and vigorously: times 
wild and picturesque, which have furnished poetry with its 
richest materials, and the drama with its most attractive 
variety of characters and manners. The world has become 
more worldly. There is more of dissipation and less enjoy- 
ment. Pleasure has expanded into a broader, but a shal- 
lower stream, and has forsaken many of those deep and 
quiet channels, where it flowed sweetly through the calm 
bosom of domestic life. Society has acquired a more en- 
lightened and elegant tone; but it has lost many of its 
strong local peculiarities, its homebred feelings, its honest 
fireside delights. The traditionary customs of golden- 
hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and lordly was- 
sailings, have passed away with the baronial castles and 
stately manor-houses in which they were celebrated. They 
comported with the shadowy hall, the great oaken gallery, 
and the tapestried parlor, but are unfitted for the light 
showy saloons and gay drawing-rooms of the modern villa. 

Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors, 
Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in Eng- 
land. It is gratifying to see that home feeliug completely 
aroused which holds so powerful a place in every English 
bosom. The preparations making on every side for the 
social board that is again to unite friends and kindred — 
the presents of good cheer passing and repassing, those 
tokens of regard and quickeners of kind feelings — the ever- 
gi'eens distributed about houses and churches, emblems of 



CMRI8TMA8. 169 

peace and gladness — all these have the most pleasing effect 
in producing fond associations, and kindling benevolent 
sympathies. Even the sound of the Avaits, rude as may be 
their minstrelsy, breaks upon the midvt^atches of a winter 
night with the effect of perfect harmony. As I have been 
awakened by them in that still and solemn hour " when 
deep sleep falleth upon man," I have listened with a 
hushed delight, and connecting them with the sacred and 
joyous occasion, have almost fancied them into another 
celestial choir, announcing peace and good-will to mankind. 
How delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon by 
these moral influences, turns everything to melody and 
beauty! The very crowing of the cock, heard sometimes 
in the profound repose of the country, " telling the night- 
watches to his feathery dames," was thought by the com- 
mon people to announce the approach of the sacred fes- 
tival : 

" Some say that ever 'gainst tliat season comes 
Wherein our Saviour's birth was celebrated. 
This bird of dawning singeth all night long: 
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad ; 
The nights are wholesome — then no planets strike. 
No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm. 
So hallowed and so gracious is the time. " 

Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the 
spirits, and stir of the affections, which prevail at this 
period, what bosom can remain insensible? It is, indeed, 
the season of regenerated feeling — the season for kindling 
not merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, but the genial 
flame of charity in the heart. The scene of early love 
again rises green to memory beyond the sterile waste of 
years, and the idea of home, fraught with the fragrance of 
home-dwelling joys, reanimates the drooping spirit — as the 
Arabian breeze will sometimes waft the freshness of the 
distant fields to the weary pilgrim of the desert. 

Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land — though for 
me no social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw 
open its doors, nor the warm grasp of friendship welcome 
me at the threshold — yet I feel the influence of the season 
beaming into my soul from the happy looks of those around 
me. Surely happiness is reflective, like the light of heaven; 
and every countenance bright with smiles, and glowing 



'170 THE SKETOn-BOOK. 

with innocont onjoyinoMt, i8 h iniridi' (iHiiHiuitfiiip; to otliors 
tho niys of a siipronui and (iv»M*-sliini!i<>; l)(iii(>v()l<>iic<\ llo 
who can turn (ihiirlishly avvjiy from {'oiitt'iiipljitiii^ the fcli- 
(Mty of his fcliow-bciiifjK, and (^ui sit (h)VVM (iarklin;;- and 
V(>|)iniii<2; in his h)n('lin(>ss vvhcMi all around is joyfid. niav 
]invo his rrionmnts of stronij <u'(Mt<^tn(Mit and sdllish <;ratili- 
cation, but ho wants th(i ;j;t'nial and social syiupathioa vvhicih 
conHtitute the (duirm of a nun-ry dhristnuis. 



TUK tit A G m-VOAVM. Itl 



THE STAGE-OOAOH. 

Siiut |)<i)iia 
T«Mii|)iis rut. liKlondi 
VtMiit, liiirii 
AI)S(|iui iiiorit 

Ijihl'OH (l(t|>OIUMI(li. 

Ol,I> llOI.IDAY HfllOOl S(i:\«l 

In the prooodiiijj piipor, T have inatlo »om(Mr(Hfi;>I n'r m 
vations on tlio CliribtmuH l\!Htivitio>s of Kii;i;l!iMcl. luul um 
U!m[)ted to illiKstniLo Mioiu by hoiiio aiUH-doloH of a (MiiLst- 
niaa paHHud in Llio (loiiiilry; in pciiusin;;' vvliii-li, 1 would 
most coiirtooiiHly invito my roador to lay asido the* anHtoiity 
of wiisdoin, and to \m[, on lliat <^('niiiiio holiday .spirit, 
which in toh^rant of folly and anxious only for anuisoiiKMit. 

lu tho (!ouiso (»f a l)('('(anl)C'r tour in VorkHliiro, 1 rodo 
for a Ion;;" diHt.Mncc in onn of tin* public; itoac^lioH, on tho 
day [)ro(!0(lin<;' (/liristnuis. 'IMiu coacdi wan crovvdi'd, both 
iriHidn and out, with pawHongiU's, who, by their tidlc, KooincMl 
prinripiilly bound to tho nninHions of rolativoH or frionds, to 
eat tho (JhristnniH dinnor. It wan h)ad('d also with ham- 

f)erB of piino, and baskotH and l)oxoH of dolioac-ioH; and 
uiroa hun;j^ danfj;lin<f their loufj; oarn about tluwoiudinnin'a 
box, proHents from diHtatd, fritwulrt for the impendiufj; feast. 
I had thr(Hi line rosy-cdietdvcd wdiool-boys for my fi^llow- 
pass(!n;j;ers inside, fidl of tlui buxom lu^alth and manly 
spirit whi(;b 1 have obscM-veil iti the childnui of this country. 
They were returnini^' honui for the holidays, in hi^di j(l(»e. 
and promiMin<j; themselvcvs a vv(uld of enjoynuuit. It was 
Ueli^^htful to hear the ;i;i^anti(; |)lans of |»k^asureof the iittlo 
ro;^iKis, and the imprac^ticMble feints lluiy were to perform 
durinjf their six wei^ks' enuincipation from the abhorr<Hl 
thraliloir of nook, birch, and piula<;o;^ui^ ''hey wcm'o fud 
of the anticipations of the meeting' with the family ami 
household, down to tho very cat and dog; ami rjf tho loy 
they were to give their sist(U"H. by the pnisents with wiiujIi 
their pockota wero cruiniuoU; but tho mootiug to which 



]72 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

they seemed to look forward with tlie greatest impatience 
was with Bantam, which I found to be a pony, and accoid- 
ing to their talk, possessed of more virtues than any steed 
since the days of Biicephahis. IIow he could trot! how he 
could run! and then such leaps as he would take — there 
was not a hedge in the Avhole country that he could not 
clear. 

They were under the particular guardianship of the 
coachman, to whom, whenever an opportunity presented, 
they addressed a host of questions, and pronounced him 
one of the best fellows in the whole world. Indeed. I 
could not but notice the more tlian ordinary air of bustle 
and importance of the eoacliman, who wore his hat a little 
on one side, and had a large bunch of Christmas greens stuck 
in the button-hole of his coat. He is always a personage 
full of mighty care and business; but he is particularly so 
during this season, having so many commissions to execute 
in consequence of the great interchange of presents. And 
here, perhapSs it may not be unacceptable to my untraTelU'd 
readers to have a sketch that may serve as a general repre- 
sentation of this very numerous and important class of 
functionaries, who have a dress, a manner, a language, an 
air, peculiar to themselves, and prevalent throughout the 
fraternity; so that, wherever an English stage-coachman 
may be seen, he cannot be mistaken for one of any other 
craft or mystery. 

lie has commonly a broad full face, curiously mottled 
with red, as if the blood had been forced by hard feeding 
into every vessel of the skin; he is swelled into jolly 
dimensions by frequent potations of malt liquors, and his 
bulk is still farther increased by a multiplicity of coats, in 
which he is buried like a cauliflower, the outer one reach- 
ing to his heels. He wears a broad-brimmed low-crowned 
hat, a huge roll of colored handkerchief about his neck, 
knowingly knotted and tucked in at the bosom; and lias in 
summer-time a large bouquet of flowers in his button-hole, 
the present, most probably, of some enamored country 
lass. His waistcoat is commonly of some bright color, 
striped, and his small-clothes extend far below the knees, 
to meet a pair of jockey boots which reach about half-way 
up his legs. 

All this costume is maintained with much precision; he 



THE STAOE-COACH. 173 

has a pride in liavinj^f his clothds of oxc^ollcnt matorialK. 
and notwil.Iiafandin}:; tlui s(H!tnin^ groKKUcKs of his appear- 
ance, there is Hiiil (liseiMMiihh) that iieatnciSH h,ii(I |)roj)riety 
of pei'Hon which in almost inherent in an l^ji;;IisliiniUi. 
He enjoys jj^reat eonHe(|n(!ne(' and (jonsidefation along tho 
road; hiiH frcifniont conftWiiiKies witii the village honsc- 
wivcH, who look n})on him aH a man of great trust and 
depiMidence; and he seeniK to have a good understanding 
with every bright-eyed country hiss, 'riie moment ho 
arrives where tlio horses are to be changed, he throwrt 
down the reins with soniething of an air, and abandons tho 
cattle to the care of the hostler; his duty being merely to 
drive them from one stage; to anotlusr. When oil" the box, 
his hands a,re thrust in the nockiits of his gi'eat-eoat, anil 
he rolls :d)out the inn-y.-ird wilJi an air of the jnost absolute! 
loidliimss. il(W(! he is geniiraJly surrounded by an adrjiiring 
fhroiig of hoslhirs, sta])I(!-boys, shoeblacks, and those 
)iii,m(!l(!ss luiugers-oii that infest inns and taverns, a,nd 
iMin ((I'rjinds, and do all kind of odd jobs, for tin; privilege 
of ballening on th(! drippings of the kitclum atui tin; leak- 
age of the tap-room. I hese all look up to Jiini as to an 
oracle; treasure u[) his cant ■j)hriises, i!cho his opinions 
about horses and otlufr to[)ics of jockety lore; and ahov(!idl, 
endeavor to imitaXe his air and <iai'riage, Ev(!ry raganniflin 
that has a coat to his ba(!k thrusts his hands in the j)ockot8, 
rolls in his gait, talks shing, and is an emI)ryo Coachey. 

I'erhans it might be owing to tin; pleasing serenity that 
reigned m my own mind, that I faiicuid I saw cluterfulneMrt 
in every countennricf^ throughout the journ(!y. A Siage- 
Coach, however, carries aniniiition idways with it, itrul puts 
the world in motion as it whii'ls along. The horn, sounded 
at the entrance of a villa,g(!, ])rodiu;es a gencrjij bustle. 
iSome hastiiu forth t,o meet friends; sonu; with bundles and 
bandboxes to sc-cnire places, and in the hurry of the mo- 
ment can hai'dly take leave of the group th.-d accompanies 
tbem- In the meantime, the c(jachman has a world of 
nmall conimiBsions to execntc; sometimes he delivers a hare 
or pheasant; sometimes jerks a small parcel or newspji-por 
to the door of a public house ; and sometimes with knowing 
leer and words of sly import, hands to some half-blushing, 
half-liiughin^ hoiKsemjiid, an odd-shiiped billetdoux from 
some rnstic admirer As the coach rattles through the vil- 



374 THE BKETVH-BOOK. 

lage, everjrone runs to the window, and you have fiances 
on every side of fresh country faces, and blooining giggling 
girls. At tlie corners are assembled juntos of village idlers 
and wise men, who take their stations there for the import- 
ant purpose of seeing company pass, but the sagest knot is 
generally at the blacksmith's, to whom the passing of the 
coach is an event fruitful of much speculation. The smith, 
Avith the horse's heel in his lap, pauses as the vehicle 
Avhirls by; the Cyclops round the anvil suspend their ring- 
ing hammei's, and suffer the iron to grow cool; and the 
sooty spectre in brown paper cap, laboring at the bellows, 
leans on the handle for a moment, and permits the asth- 
matic engine to have a long-drawn sigh, while he glares 
through the murky smoke and sulphureous gleams of the 
smithy. 

Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more 
than usual animation to the country, for it seemed to me 
as if everybody was in good looks and good spirits. Game, 
poultry, and other luxuries of the table, were in brisk circu- 
lation in the villages, the grocers, butchers, and fruiterers' 
shops were thronged with customers. The housewives 
were stirring briskly about, putting their dwellings in 
order^ and the glossy branches of holly, with their bright 
red berries, began to appear at the windows. The scene 
brought to mind an old writer's account of Christmas 
preparations. " Now capons and hens, besides turkeys, 
geese, and ducks, with beef and mutton — must ail die — for 
in twelve days a multitude of people will not be fed with a 
little. Now plums and spice, sugar and honey, square it 
among pies and broth. Now or never must music be in 
tune, for the youth must dance and sing to get them a 
heat, while the aged sit by the fire. The country nuiid 
leaves half her market, and must be sent again, if she for- 
gets a pair of cards en Christmas eve. Great is the conten- 
tion of Holly and Ivy, whether master or dame wears the 
breeches. Dice and cards benefit the butler; and if the 
cook do not lack wit, he will sweetly lick his fingers." 

I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation by a 
shout from my little travelling companions. They had 
been looking out of the coach-windows for the last few 
miles, recoguizing every tree and cottage as they ap- 
proached home, and now there was a general burst of joy 



THE 8TA GE-OOAOH. 1 75 

—''There's John! and thei*e's old Carlo! and there's Ban- 
tam!" cried the happy little rogues, clapping their hands. 

At the end of a lane, there was an old sober-looking ser- 
vant in livery, waiting for them; he was accompanied by a 
superaniiuated pointer, und by t,ho redoubtable Bantam, a 
little old rat of a pony, with a shaggy mane and long rusty 
tail, who stood dozing quietly by the road-side, little dream- 
ing of the bustling times that awaited liim. 

I was pleased to sec the fondness with which the little 
fellows leaped about the steady old footnuin, and hugged 
the pointer, who wriggled his whole body for joy. But Ban- 
tam was the great object of interest; all wanted to mount 
at once, and it was with some difHculty that John arranged 
that they should ride by turns, and the eldest should ride 
first, 

OflF they set at last; one on tiie pony, with the dog bound- 
ing and barking before him, and the others holding John's 
hands; both talking at once and over])owering him with 
questions about home, and with school anecdotes. 1 looked 
after them with a feeling in whicdi 1 do not know whether 
pleasure or melancholy predominated; for I was reminded 
of those days when, like them, 1 had neither known care 
nor sorrow, and a holiday was the summit of earthly felic- 
ity. We stopped a few moments afterwards, to water the 
horses; and on resuming our route, a turn of the road 
hrought us in sight of a neat country-seat. 1 could just 
distinguish the forms of a lady and two young girls in the 
portico, and I saw my little comrades, with Bantam, Carlo, 
and old John, ti'oo])ing along the carriage road. I leaned 
out of the coach-window, in hoi)es of witnessing the happy 
meeting, but a grove of trees shut it from my sight. 

In the evening we reached a village where I had deter- 
mined to pass the nigiit. As we drove into the great gate- 
way of the inn, I saw, on one side, the light of a rousing 
kitchen tire beaming through a window. I ent/ered, and 
admired for the hundredth time that picture of conveni- 
ence, neatness, and broad honest enjoyment, the picture of 
an English inn. It was of spacious dimensions, hung 
round with copper and tin vessels highly polished, and doc- 
orated here and there with a Christmas green. Hams, 
tongues, and iiitclies of bacon were suspended from the 
ceilmgj a smoke- jack made its ceaseless clanking beside 



176 THE SKETCH-BOOK, 

the lire-place, and a clock ticked in one corner, A well- 
sconred deal table extended along one side of the kitchen, 
with a cold round of beef, and other liearty viands, upon 
it, over which two foaming tankards of ale seemed mount- 
ing guard. Travellers of inferior order wei'e preparing to 
attack this stout repast, while others sat smoking and gos- 
siping over their ale on two high-backed oaken settles 
beside the tire. Trim housemaids were hurrying back- 
wards and forwards, under the directions of a bustling 
landlady; but. still seizing an occasional moment to ex- 
change a flippant word, and have a rallying laugh, with 
the group round the fire. The scene completely realized 
Poor Robin's humble idea of the comforts of mid-winter: 



Now trees their leafy hats do bare 
To reverence Winter's silver hair; 
A handsome hostess, merry host, 
A pot of ale and now a toast, 

Tobacco and a good coal fire, 

Are things this season doth require.* 

I had not been long at the inn, when & post-chaise drove 
u^) to the door. A young gentleman stepped out, and by 
tne light of the lamps I caught a glimpse of a countenance 
which I thought I knew. I moved forward to get a nearer 
view, when his eye caught mine. I was not mistaken; it 
was Frank Bracebridge, a sprightly good-humored young 
fellow, with whom I had once travelled on the Continent. 
Our meeting was extremely cordial, for the countenance of 
an old fellow-traveller always brings up the recollection of 
a thousand pleasant scenes, odd adventures, and excellent 
jokes. To discuss all these in a transient interview at an 
inn, was impossible; and finding that I was not pressed for 
time and was merely making a tour of observation, he in- 
sisted that I should give him a day or two at his father's 
country-seat, to which he was going to pass the holidays. 
ana which lay at a few miles' distance. "It is better than 
eating a solitary Christmas dinner at an inn," said he, 
"and I can assure you of a hearty welcome, in something 
of the old-fashioned style.'' His reasoning was cogent, and 
I must confess the preparation \ luvrl seen for universal fes- 

♦ Poor Robin's Almanack. 1694. 



TSB STAOE-COAOH. I77 

tivity and social enjoyment had made me feel a little 
impatient of my loneliness. I closed, therefore, at once, 
with his invitation; the chaise drove up to the door, and in 
a few moments I was on my way to the family mansion of 
the Bracebridsres. 



178 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 

Saint Francis and Saint Beuedight 
Blesse this house from wielded wight; 
From the night-mare and the goblin, 
That is hight good fellow Robin; 
Keep it from all evil spirits, 
Fairies, weazles, rats, and ferrets; 

From curfew-time 

To the next prime. 

Cartwright. 

It was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely cold; 
our chaise whirled rapidly over the frozen ground ;_the 
post-boy smacked his whij) incessantly, and a part of the 
time his horses were on a gallop. " He knows where he 
is going," said my companion, laughing, *'and is eager to 
arrive m time for some of the merriment and good cheer of 
the servants' hall. My father, you must know, is a bigoted 
devotee of the old school, and prides himself upon keeping 
up something of old English hospitality. He is a tolerable 
specimen of what you will rarely meet with now-a-days in 
its purity, — the old English country gentleman; for our 
men of fortune spend so much of their time in town, and 
fashion is carried so much into the country, that the strong 
rich peculiarities of ancient rural life are almost polished 
away. My father, however, from early years, took honest 
Peacham* for his text-book, instead of Chesterfield; he de- 
termined in his own mind, that there was no condition 
more truly honorable and enviable than that of a country 
gentleman on his paternal lands, and, therefore, passes the 
whole of his time on his estate. He is a strenuous advocate 
for the revival of the old rural games and holiday observ- 
ances, find is deeply read in the writers, ancient and mod- 
ern, who have treated on the subject. Indeed, his favorite 
range of reading is among the authors who flourisiicd at 

• Peacdiam's Complete Gentleman, 1633. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 179 

least two centuries since; who, he insists, wrote and thought 
more like true Englishmen than any of their successors. 
He even regrets sometimes that he had not been born a few 
centuries earlier, when England was itself, and had its pe- 
culiar manners and customs. As he lives at some distance 
from the main road, in rather a lonely part of the country, 
without any rival gentry near him, he has that most envi- 
able of all blessings to an Englishman, an opportunity of 
indulging the bent of his own humor without molestation. 
Being representative of the oldest family in the neighbor- 
hood, and a great part of the peasantry being his tenants, 
he is much looked up to, and, in general, is known simply 
by the appellation of ' The Squire;' a title which has been 
accorded to the head of the family since time imme- 
morial. I think it best to give you these hints about my 
worthy old father, to prepare you for any little eccentrici- 
ties that might otherwise appear absurd." 

We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, 
and at length the chaise stopped at the gate. It was in a 
heavy magnificent old style, of iron bars, fancifully wrought 
at top into flourishes and flowers. The huge square col- 
umns that supported the gate were surmounted by the 
family crest. Close adjoining was the jsorter's lodge, shel- 
tered under dark fir trees, and almost buried in shrubbery. 

The post-boy rang a large porter's bell, which resounded 
through the still frosty air, and was answered by the dis- 
tant barking of dogs, with which the mansion-house seemed 
garrisoned. An old woman immediately appeared at the 
gate. As the moonlight fell strongly upon her, I had a 
full view of a little primitive dame, dressed very much iu 
antique taste, with a neat kerchief and stomacher, and her 
silver hair peeping from under a cap of snov/y whiteness. 
She came curtseying forth with many expressions of simple 
joy at seeing her young master. Her husband, it seemed, 
was up at the house keeping Christmas eve in the servants* 
hall ; they could not do without him, as he was the best 
hand at a song and story in the household. 

My friend proposed that we should alight, and walk 
through the park to the Hall, which was at no great dis- 
tance, while the chaise should follow on. Our road wound 
til rough a noble avenue of trees, among the naked branches 
of which the moon glittered as she rolled through the deep 



180 THE SKETCH-BOOK,-^ 

vault of a cloudless sky. The lawn beyond was sheeted 
with a slight covering of snow, which here and there 
sparkled as the moonbeams caught a frosty crystal; and at 
a distance might be seen a thin transparent vapor, stealing 
up from the low grounds, and threatening gradually to 
shroud the landscape. 

My companion looked round him with transport: — 
"How often," said he, "have I scampered up this avenue, 
on returning home on school vacations! How often have 1 
played under these trees when a boy! I feel a degree cf 
filial reverence for them, as we look up to those who have 
cherished us in childhood. My father was always scrupu- 
lous in exacting our holidays, and having us around him on 
family festivals. He used to direct and superintend our 
games with the strictness that some parents do the studies 
of their children. He was very particular that we should 
play the old English games according to their original 
form; and consulted old books for precedent and authority 
for every 'merrie disport;^ yet, I assure you, there never 
was pedantry so delightful. It was the policy of the good 
old gentleman to make his children feel that home was the 
happiest place in the world, and I value this delicious 
home feeling as one of the choicest gifts a parent could 
bestow," 

We were interrupted by the clamor of a troop of dogs of 
all sorts and sizes, "mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound, 
and curs of low degree," that, disturbed by the ringing of 
the porter's bell and the rattling of the chaise, came bound- 
ing open-mouthed across the lawn, 

" The little dogs and all, 

Tray, Blanche, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at mel" 

cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice, 
the bark was changed into a yelp of delight, and in a mo- 
ment he was surrounded and almost overpowered by the 
caresses of the faithful animals. 

We had now come in full view of the old family man- 
sion, partly thrown in deep shadow, and partly lit up by 
the cold moonshine. It was an irregular building of some 
magnitude, and seemed to be of the architecture of differ- 
ent periods. One wing was evidently very ancient, with 
heavy stone-shafted bow windows Jutting out and overrun 



0HRT8TMA8 EVE. 181 

fl'ith ivy, from among the foliage of which the small dia- 
mond-shaped panes of glass glittered with the moonbeams. 
The rest of the house was in the French taste of Charles 
the Second's time, having been repaired and altered, as my 
friend told me, by one of his ancestors, who returned with 
that monarch at the Restoration. The grounds about the 
house were laid out in the old formal manner of artificial 
flower-beds, clipped shrubberies, raised terraces, and heavy 
stone ballustrades, ornamented with urns, a leaden statue 
or two, and a jet of Avater, The old gentleman, I was told, 
was extremely careful to preserve this obsolete finery in all 
its original state. He admired this fashion in gardening; 
it had an air of magnificence, was courtly and noble, and 
befitting good old family style. The boasted imitation of 
nature and modern gardening had sprung up with modern 
republican notions, but did not suit a monarchical govern- 
ment — it smacked of the levelling system. 1 could not 
help smiling at this introduction of politics into gardening, 
though I expressed some apprehension that I should find 
the old gentleman rather intolerant in his creed. Frank 
assured me, however, that it was almost the only instance 
in which he had ever heard his father meddle with politics; 
and he believed he had got this notion from a member of 
Parliament, who once passed a few weeks with him. The 
'Squire was glad of any argument to defend his clipped 
yew trees and formal terraces, which had been occasionally 
attacked by modern landscape gardeners. 

As we approached the house, we heard the sound of 
mnsic, and now and then a burst of laughter, from one end 
of the building. This, Bracebridge said, must proceed 
from the servants' hall, where a great deal of revelry was 
permitted, and even encouraged, by the 'Squire, through- 
out the twelve days of Christmas, provided every thing was 
done conformably to ancient usage. Here were kept up the 
old games of hoodman blind, shoe the wild mare, hot 
cockles, steal the white loaf, bob-apple, and snap-dragon; 
the Yule clog, and Christmas candle, were regularly burnt, 
and the mistletoe, with its white berries, hung up, to the 
imminent peril of all the j^retty house-maids.* 

♦The mistletoe is still hung up in farm-houses and kitchens, at Christ- 
mas: and the young men have the privilege of kissing the girls under it, 
B lucking each time a oerry from the bush. When the berries are all plucked, 
le priTilege ceases. 



183 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

So intent were the servants upon their sports, that wo 
had to ring repeatedly before we could make ourselves 
heard. On our arrival being announced, the ^Squire came 
out to receive us, accompanied by his two other sons; one a 
young officer in the army, home on leave of absence; the 
other an Oxonian, just from the university. The 'Squire 
was a fine healthy-looking old gentleman, with silver hair 
curling lightly round an open florid countenance; in which 
a physiognomist, with the advantage, like myself, of a 
previous hint or two, might discover a singular mixture of 
whim and benevolence. 

The family meeting was warm and affectionate; as the 
evening was far advanced, the 'Squire would not permit us 
to change our travelling dresses, but ushered us at once to 
the company, which was assembled in a large old-fashioned 
hall. It was composed of different branches of a numerous 
family connection, where there were the usual proportions 
of old uncles and aunts, comfortable married dames, super- 
annuated spinsters, blooming country cousins, half-fledged 
striplings, aud bright-eyed boarding-school hoydens. They 
were variously occupied; some at a round game of cards; 
others conversing round the fire-jDlace; at one end of the 
hall was a group of the young folks, some nearly grown up, 
others of a more tender and budding age, fully engrossed by 
a merry game; and a profusion of wooden horses, penny 
trumpets, and tattered dolls about the floor, showed traces 
of a troop of little fairy beings, who, having frolicked 
through a happy da}^, had been carried off to slumber 
through a peaceful night. 

Willie tue mutual greetings were going on l)et\w, »■ 
young Bracebridge and his relatives, I had time to scan ti:. 
apartment. I have called it a iiall, for so it liad certainlv 
been iu old times, and the 'Squire had evidently en<leavore'l 
to restore it to something of its primitive state. Over the 
heavy projecting fire-place was suajiLUided a [licture of a 
warrior in armor, standing by a wtiiie horse, aiul (mi the 
opposite wall hung a helmet, buckler, and lance. Ar on" 
end an enortnons pair of antlers were insei'ted in the •» 1 
the branches serving as hooks on which to suspin-^ 
whips, and spurs, and in the corners of the apart m. 
fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, and other sporting- lini.l - 
inents. Tiie furniture whs of the cumbrous woik'nanship 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 183 

of former days, tliougli some articles of modern conveni- 
ence had been added, and tlie oaken floor had been car- 
peted ; so tiiat the whole presented an odd mixture of 
parlor and hall. 

The grate had been removed from the wide overwhelm- 
ing lire-place, to make way for a fire of Avood, in the midst 
< f \yhich was an enormous log, glowing and blazing, and 
s:>nding forth a vast volume of light and heat ; this I nnder- 
slood was the ynle clog, which the 'Squire was particular 
ia having brought in and illumined on a Christmas eve, 
according to ancient custom.* 

It was really deliglitful to see the old 'Squire, seated in 
his hereditary elbow-chair, by the hospitable fireside of his 
ancestors, and looking around him like the sun of a system, 
beaming warmth and gladness to every heart. Even the 
very dog that lay stretched at his feet, as he lazily shifted 
his position and yawned, would look fondly up in his 
master's face, wag his tail against the floor, and stretch 
himself again to sleep, confident of kindness and pro- 
tection. There is an emanation from the heart in genuine 
hospitality, which cannot be described, but is immediately 
felt, and puts the stranger at once at his ease. I had not 
been seated many minutes by the comfortable hearth of the 
worthy old cavalier, before I found myself as much at 
home as if I had been one of the family. 

Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It was 
served up in a spacious oaken chamber, the panels of which 

* The yule clog is a great log of wood, sometimes the root of a tree brought 
into the house with great ceremony, on Christmas eve, laid in the fire-place, 
and lighted with the brand of last year's clog. While it lasted, there was 
great drinking, singing, and telling of tales. Sometimes it was accompanied 
by Christmas candles , but in the cottages, the only light was from the ruddy 
blaze of the great wood f5re. The yule clog was to burn all night ; if it went 
out, it was considered a sing of ill luck. 

Herrick mentions it in one of his songs ; 

Come bring with a noise. 

My merrie, merrie boys, 

The Christmas Log to the firing ; 

While my good dame she 

Bids ye all be free. 
And drink to your hearts desiring. 

The yule clog is still burnt in many farm-houses and kitchens in England, 
particularly in the north ; and there are several superstitions connected with 
It among the peasantry. If a squinting person come to the house while it is 
burning, or a per.«on barefooted, it is considered an ill omen. The brand 
remaining from the yule clog is carefully put away to light the next year's 
Christina.^ Are. 



184 THE 8KETVH-B00K. 

slioiie with wax, und uruuml which vvcjo several family por- 
traits decorated with holly and ivy. Beside the accus- 
tomed lights, two great wax tuiiers, eullod C'hristiniis 
candles, wreatiied with greens, were jjlaced on a highly 
polished beaufet nmoiig the fainily phiie. The table was 
abundantly spread with substantial fare; but the 'S(juiro 
nuulo his supper of frunuinty, a dish nuule of wheat cakes 
boiled in milk with ricdi spices, being a standing dish iu 
old tinu's for ('hristnuis eve. 1 was happy to lind my old 
friend, minced pie, in the retimie of the feast; aiul liiuliiig 
him to be perfectly orthodox, and that I need not be 
ashamed of my predilection, I greeted him with all the 
warmth whorovvitn we usually greet an old aiul very giuiteol 
acquaintance. 

The mirth of the company was greatly promoteil by the 
humors of an eccentric persomige whom iMi-. l?i-a(uibridge 
always addressed with the (piaint appellation of Master 
Simon. lie was a tight brisk little num, with the a,ii-of an 
arrant old bachelor. His ju)S(^ was sha,i)ed lik(^ the bill^of a 

Sarrot; his face slightly pitted with the snuill-pox, with a 
ry por])etual blooin on it, like a frost-bitten leaf in 
autumn, lie had an eye of greai, (juickiuvss and vivacity, 
with a drollery and lurking waggery of expression that was 
irresistible, lie was evidently the wit of the family, deal- 
ing very much in sly jokes and innuendoes with the ladies, 
and making infinite merriment by harpings upon old 
themes; which, unfortunately, my ignorance of the family 
chronicles did not permit me to enjoy. It seemed to be 
his great delight, during supper, to keen a young girl next 
him in a continual agony of stilled laughter, in spite of her 
awe of the reproving Iooks of her mother, who sat opi)osite. 
Indeed, he was the idol of the younger part of the com- 
pany, who laughed at everything he saitl or did, and at 
every turn of his countenance. 1 could not wonder at it; 
for he must have been a miracle of accomplishments in 
their eyes. He could imitnte Punch and tJiuiy; make an 
old woman of his hand, with the ussistance of a burnt cork 
and pockt-haudkerchief; and cut an orange into such a 
ludicrous caricature, that the young folks were ready to 
die with laughing. 

I was let l)rietiy into his history by Frank Bracebridge. 
Jle was an old bachelor, of a small independent income, 



VHRItiTMAH EVE. 185 

which, by careful nmnagemenc, was sutiicient for nil )iis 
wants. He revolved through the family system like a 
vagrant comet in its orbit, sometimes visiting one branch, 
and sometimes another quite remote, as is often the case 
with gentlemen of extensive connections and small fortunes 
in England. He had a chirping, buoyant disposition, 
always enjoying the present moment; and his frequent 
change of scene and company prevented his acquiring tliose 
rusty, unaccommodating luibits, with which old baclu^lors 
are so uncharitably charged. He was a complete fainily 
chronicle, being versed in the geiu^alogy, history, and 
intermarriages of the whole house of Bracebridge, which 
made him a great favorite with the old folks; he was a 
beau of all the elder ladies and superannuated spinsters, 
among whom he was habitually considered rather a young 
fellow, and he was mastei'of the revels among the children; 
so that there was not a more popular being in the sphere 
in which he moved, than Mr. Simon Bracebridge. Of late 
years, he hact resided almost entirely with the 'Squire, to 
whom he had become a factotum, and whom he particu- 
larly delighted by lumping with his humor in respect to 
old times, and by having a scrap of an old song to suit 
every occasion. We had presently a specimen of his last- 
mentioned talent; for no sooner was supper removed, and 
spiced wines and other beverages peculiar to the season 
introduced, than Master Simon was called on for a good 
old Christmas song. He bethought himself for a moment, 
and then, with a sparkle of the eye, and a voice that was 
by no means bad, excepting that it ran occasionally into a 
falsetto, like the notes of a split reed, he quavered forth a 
quaint old ditty: 

Now Cliristmas is come, 

Let us beat up tlie drum, 
Aud call all our neighbors together ; 

And when they appear, 

Let us miilie «uch a cheer, 
As will keep out the wind and the weather, Ac. 

The supper had disposed every one to gayety, and an old 
harper was summoned from tlie servants' hall, where he 
had been strumming all the evening, and to all appearance 
comforting himself with some of the 'Squire's home-brewed. 



186 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

He was a kind of hanger-on, I was told, of the establish- 
ment, and though ostensibly a resident of the village, was 
oftener to be found in the 'Squire's kitchen than his own 
home; the old gentleman being fond of the sound of '' Harp 
in hall." 

The dance, like most dances after supper, was a merry- 
one; some of the older folks joined in it, and the 'Squire 
himself figured down several couple with a partner with 
whom he affirmed he had danced at every Christmas for 
nearly half a century. Master Simon, who seemed to be 
a kind of connecting link between the old times and the 
new, and to be withal a little antiquated in the tastes of his 
accomplishments, evidently piqued himself on his dancing, 
and was endeavoring to gain credit by the heel and toe, 
rigadoou, and other graces of the ancient school: but he 
had unluckily assorted himself with a little romping girl 
from boarding-school, who, by her wild vivacity, kept him 
continually on the stretch, and defeated all his sober at- 
tempts at elegance: — such are the ill-sorted matches^ to 
which antique gentlemen are unfortunately prone. 

The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out one of 
his maiden aunts, on whom the rogue played a thousand 
little knaveries with impunity; he was full of practical 
jokes, and his delight was to tease his aunts and cousins; 
yet, like all madcap youngsters, he was a universal favorite 
Among the women. The most interesting couple in the 
dance was the young officer, and a ward of the 'Squire's, a 
beautiful blushing girl of seventeen. From several shy 
glances which I had noticed in the course of the evening, 
I suspected there was a little kindness growing up between 
them; and, indeed, the young soldier was just the hero to 
captivate a romantic girl. He was tall, slender, and hand- 
some; and, like most young British officers of late vears, 
had picked up various small accomplishments on the Conti- 
nent — he could talk French and Italian — draw landscapes 
— sing very tolerably — dance divinely; but above all, he 
iiad been wounded at Waterloo; — what girl of seventeen, 
well read in poetry and romance, could resist such a mirror 
of chivalry and perfection? 

The moment the dance was over, he caught up a guitar, 
and lolling against the old marble fire-place, in an attitude 
which I, am half inclined to suspect was studied, began the 



0EBISTMA8 EVE. 187 

little French air of the Troubadour. The 'Squire, how- 
ever, exclaimed against having anything on Christmas eve 
but good old English; upon which the young minstrel, 
casting up his eye for a moment, as if in an effort of mem- 
mory, struck into another strain, and with a charming air 
of gallantry, gave Herrick's " Night- Piece to Julia:" 

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee. 
The shooting stars attend thee, 

And tho elves also, 

Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

No Will-o'-th'-Wisp mislight thee; 
Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee; 

But on, on thy way, 

Not making a stay. 
Since ghost there is none to affright thee. 

Then let not the dark thee cumber; 
What though the moon does slumber, 

The stars ol' tlie night 

Will lend thee their light, 
Like tapers clear without number. 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 
Thus, thus to come unto me: 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet 
My soul I'll pour into thee. 

The song might or might not have been intended in com- 
pliment to the fair Julia, for so I found his partner was 
called; she, however, was certainly unconscious of any such 
application; for she never looked at the singer, but kept her 
eyes cast upon the floor; her face was suffused, it is true, 
with a beautiful bhish, and there was a gentle heaving of 
the bosom, but all that was doubtless caused by the exercise 
of the dance; indeed, so great was her indifference, that she 
was amusing herself with plucking to pieces a choice bou- 
quet of hot-house flowers, and by the time the song was 
concluded the nosegay lay in ruins on the floor. 

The party now broke up the night with the kind-hearted 
old custom of shaking haTids. As I passed through the 
hall on my way to my chamber, the dying embers of the 
yule clog still sent forth a dusky glow; and had it not beea 



188 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

the season when ''no spirit dares stir abroad/* I should 
have been half tempted to steal from my room at midnight, 
aad peep whether the fairies might not be at their revels 
about the hearth. 

My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the pon- 
derous furniture of which might have been fabricated in 
the days of the giants. The room was panelled, with cor- 
nices of heavy carved work, in which flowers and grotesque 
faces were strangely intermingled, and a row of black- 
looking portraits stared mournfully at me from the walls. 
The bed was of rich, though faded damask, with a lofty 
tester, and stood in a niche opposite a bow-window. I had 
scarcely got into bed when a strain of music seemed to 
break forth in the air just below the window. I listened, 
and found it proceeded from a band, which I concluded to 
be the waits from some neighboring village. They went 
round the house, playing under the windows. I drew aside 
the curtains, to hear them more distinctly. The moon- 
beams fell through the upper part of the casement, parti^ly 
lighting up the antiquated apartment. The sounds, as 
they receded, became more soft and aerial, and seemed to 
accord with quiet and moonlight. I listened and listened 
— they became more and more tender and remote, and, as 
they gradually died away, my head sunk upon the pillow, 
and T ^"U asleep. 



CHRISTMAS DAT. 189 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 

Dark and dull night flie hence away. 
And give the honor to this day 
That sees December turned to May. 
» * * * » 

Why does the chilling winter's mome 
Smile like a field beset with corn ? 
Or smell like to a meade new-shorne, 
Thus on a sudden? — come and see 
The cause why things thus fragrant be. 

Herrick. 

When I woke the next morning, it seemed as if all the 
events of the preceding evening had been a dream, and 
nothing but the identity of the ancient chamber convinced 
me of their reality. While I lay musing on my pillow, I 
heard the sound of little feet pattering outside of the door, 
and a whispering consultation. Presently a choir of small 
voices chanted forth an old Christmas carol, the burden of 
which was — 

Rejoice, our Saviour he was born 
On Christmas day in the morning. 

I rose softly, slipt on my clothes, opened the door sud- 
denly, and beheld one of the most beautiful little fairy 
groups that a painter could imagine. It consisted of a boy and 
two girls, the eldest not more than six, and lovely as seraphs. 
They were going the rounds of the house, singing at every 
chamber door, but my sudden appearance frightened them 
into mute bashfulness. They remained for a moment 
playing on their lips with their fingers, and now and then 
stealing a shy glance from under their eyebrows, until, as 
if by one impulse, they scampered away, and as they turned 
an angle of the gallery, I heard them laughing in triumph 
at their escape. 

Everything conspired to produce kind and happy feelings, 
in this stronghold of old fashioned hospitality. The win- 
dow of my chamber looked out upon what in summer would 



190 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

have been a beautiful landscape. There was a sloping lawn, 
a fine stream winding at the foot of it, and a tract of park 
beyond, with noble clumps of trees, and herds of deer. At 
a distance was a neat hamlet, with the smoke from the cot- 
tage chimneys hanging over it; and a church, with its dark 
spire in strong relief against the clear cold sky. The house 
was surrounded with evergreens, according to the English 
custom, which would have given almost an appearance of 
summer; but the morning was extremely frosty; the light 
vapor of the preceding evening had been precipitated by 
the cold, and covered all the trees and every blade of grass 
with fine crystallizations. The rays of a bright morning 
sun had a dazzling effect among the glittering foliage. A 
robin perched upon the top of a mountain ash, that hung 
its clusters of red berries just before my window, was bask- 
ing himself in the sunshine, and piping a few querulous 
notes; and a peacock was displaying all the glories of his 
train, and strutting with the pride and gravity of a Spanish 
grandee on the terrace-walk below. 

I had scarcely dressed myself, when a servant appeared 
to invite me to family prayers. He showed me the way to 
a small chapel in the old wing of the house, where I found 
the principal part of the family already assembled in a 
kind of gallery, furnished with cushions, hassocks, and 
large prayer-books; the servants were seated on benches 
below. The old gentleman read prayers from a desk in 
front of the gallery, and Master Simon acted as clerk and 
made the responses; and I must do him the justice to say, 
that he acquitted himself with great gravity and decorum. 

The service was followed by a Christmas carol, which Mr. 
Bracebridge himself had constructed from a poem of his 
favorite author, Herrick; and it had been adapted to a 
church melody by Master Simon. As there were several 
good voices among the household, the effect was extremely 
pleasing; but I was particularly gratified by the exaltation 
of heart, and sudden sally of grateful feeling, with which 
the worthy 'Squire delivered one stanza; his eye glistening, 
and his voice rambling out of all the bounds of time and 
tune: 

" 'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth 
With guiltless mirth, 
And giv'st me Wassaile bowles to drink 
Spic'd to the brink: 



CHRIBTMAS DAY. 191 

Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand 

That soiles my land : 
And giv'st me for my bushell sowue, 

Twice ten for one." 

I afterwards understood that early morniug service was 
read on every Sunday and saint's day throughout the year, 
either by Mr. Braccbridge or some member of the family. 
It was once almost universally the case at the seats of the 
nobility and gentry of England, and it is much to De re- 
gretted that the custom is falling into neglect; lor the 
dullest observer must be sensible of the order and serenity 
prevalent in those households, where the occasional exer- 
cise of a beautiful form of worship in the morning gives, 
as it were, the key-note to every temper for the day, and 
attunes every spirit to harmony. 

Our breakfast consisted of what the 'Squire denominated 
true old English fare. He indulged in some bitter lamen- 
tations over modern breakfasts of tea and toast, which he 
censured as among the causes of modern effeminacy and 
weak nerves, and the decline of old English heartiness; 
and though he admitted them to his table to suit the 
palates of his guests, yet there was a brave display of cold 
meats, wine, and ale, on the sideboard. 

After breakfast, I walked about the grounds with Frank 
Bracebridge and Master Simon, or Mr. Simon, as he was 
called by everybody but the 'Squire. We were escorted by 
a number of gentlemen-like dogs, that seemed loungers 
about the establishment; from the frisking spaniel to the 
steady old stag-hound — the last of which was of a race that 
had been in the family time out of mind— they were all 
obedient to a dog-whistle which hung to Master Simon's 
button-hole, and in the midst of their gambols would 
glance an eye occasionally upon a small switch he carried 
in his hand. 

The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the 
yellow sunshine than by pale moonlight; and I could not 
but feel the force of the 'Squire's idea, that the formal ter- 
races, heavily moulded balustrades, and clipped yew trees, 
carried with them an air of proud aristocracy. 

There appeared to be an unusual number of peacocks 
auout the place, and I was making some remarks upon 
what I termed a flock of them that were basking under a 



192 THE SKETCR-BOOK.' 

suuny wall, when I was gently corrected in my phraseology 
by Master Simon, who told me that according to the mopt 
ancient and approved treatise on hunting, 1 must say a 
imister of peacocks. " In the same way," added he, Avitha 
slight air of pedantry, "we saw a fliglit of doves or swal- 
lows, a bevy of quails, a herd of deer, of wrens, or cranes, 
a skulk of foxes, or a building of rooks." lie went on to 
inform nie that, according to Sir Anthony Fitzherbert, we 
ought to ascribe to this bird "both understanding and 
glory: for, being praised, he will presently set up his tail, 
chiefly against the sun, to the intent you may the better 
behold the beauty thereof. But at the fall of the leaf, 
when his tail falleth, he will mourn and hide himself in 
corners, till his tail come again as it was." 

I could not help smiling at this display of small erudition 
on so whimsical a subject; but I found tluit the peacocks 
were birds of some consequence at the Hall; for Frank 
Bracebridge informed me that they were great favorites 
with his father, who was extremely careful to keep up the 
breed, partly because they belonged to chivalry, and "were 
in great request at the stately banquets of the olden time; 
and partly because they had a pomp and magnificence 
about them highly becoming an old family mansion. 
Nothing, he was accustomed to say, had an air of greater 
state and dignity, than a peacock perched upon an an- 
tique stone balustrade. 

Master Simon had now to hurry off, having an appoint- 
ment at the parish church with the village choristers, who 
were to perform some music of his selection. There was 
something extremely agreeable in the cheerful flow of ani- 
mal spirits of the little man; and I confess that I had been 
somewhat surprised at his apt quotations from authors who 
certainly were not in the range of every-day reading. I 
mentioned this last circumstance to Frank Bracebridge, 
who told me with a smile that Master Simon's whole stock 
of erudition was confined to some half-a-dozen old authors, 
which the 'Squire had put into his hands, and which he 
read over and over, whenever he had a studious fit; as he 
sometimes had on a rainy day, or a long winter evening. 
Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's Book of Husbandry; Markham's 
Country Contentments; the Tretyse of Hunting, by Sir 
Thomas Cockayne, Knight; Izaak Walton's Angler, and 



CBRISTMAS DA T. 193 

two or three more such ancient worthies of the pen, were 
his standard authorities; and, like all men who know but 
a few books, he looked up to them with a kind of idolatry, 
and quoted them on all occasions. As to his songs, they 
were chiefly picked out of old books in the ^Squire's 
library, and adapted to tunes that were popular among 
the choice spirits of the last century. His practical appli- 
cation of scraps of literature, however, had caused him to 
be looked upon as a prodigy of book-knowledge by all the 
grooms, huntsmen, and small sportsmen of the neighbor- 
hood. 

While we were talking, we heard the distant toll of the 
village bell, and I v/as told that the 'Squire was a little par- 
ticular in having his household at church on a Christmas 
morning; considering it a day of pouring out of thanks and 
rejoicing; for, as old Tusser observed': 

" At Christmas be merry, and thankful withal, 
And feast thy good neighbors, the great with the small." 

" If you are disposed to go to church," said Frank Brace- 
bridge, " I can promise you a specimen of my cousin 
Simon's musical achievements. As the church is destitute 
of an organ, he has formed a band from the village ama- 
teurs, and established a musical club for their improve- 
ment; he has also sorted a choir, as he sorted my father's 
pack of hounds, according to the directions of Jervaise 
Markham, in his Country Contentments; for the bass he 
has sought out all the 'deep, solemn mouths,' and for the 
tenor the 'loud ringing mouth,' among the country bump- 
kins; and for ' sweet mouths,' he has culled with curiou.s 
taste among the prettiest lassies in the neighborhood; 
though these last, he attirms, are the most difficult to keep 
in tune; your pretty female singer being exceedingly way- 
ward and capricious, and very liable to accident." 

As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably fine and 
clear, the most of the family walked to the church, which 
was a very old building of gray stone, and stood near a 
village, about half a mile from the park gate. Adjoining 
it was a low snug parsonage, which seemed coeval with the 
church. The front of it was perfectly matted with a yew 
tree, that had been trained against its walls, through the 
dense foliage of which apertures had been formed to admit 



1^4 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

light into the small antique lattices. As we passed this 
sheltered nest, the parson issued forth and preceded us. 

I had expected to see a sleek, well-conditioned pastor, 
such as is often found in a snug living in the vicinity of a 
rich patrou^s table, but I was disappointed. The parson 
was a little meagre, black-looking man, with a grizzled wig 
that was too wide, and stood off from each ear; so that his 
head seemed to have shrunk away within it, like a dried 
filbert in its shell. He wore a rusty coat, with great skirts, 
and pockets that would have held the church bible and 
prayer-book, and his small legs seemed still smaller, from 
being planted in large shoes, decorated with enormous 
buckles. 

I was informed by Frank Bracebridge that the parson had 
been a chum of his father's at Oxford, and had received 
this living shortly after the latter had come to his estate. 
He was a complete black-letter hunter, and would scarcely 
read a work printed in the Roman character. The editions 
of Caxton and Wynkin de Worde were his delight; andr he 
was indefatigable in his researches after such old English 
writers as have fallen into oblivion from their worthlessness. 
In deference, perhaps, to the notions of Mr. Bracebridge, 
he had made diligent investigations into the festive rites and 
holiday customs of former times; and had been as zealous 
in the inquiry as if he had been a boon companion; but it 
was merely with tliat plodding spirit with which men of 
adust temperament follow up any track of study, merely 
because it is denominated learning; indifferent to its in- 
trinsic nature, whether it be the illustration of the wisdom, 
or of the ribaldry and obscenity of antiquity. He had 
pored over these old volumes so intensely, that they seemed 
to have been reflected into his countenance; which, if the 
face be indeed an index of the mind, might be compared 
to a title-page of black-letter. 

On reaching the church-porch, we found the parson re- 
buking the gray-headed sexton for having used mistletoe 
among the gi-eens with which the church was decorated. 
It was, he observed, an unholy plant, profane by having 
been used by the Druids in their mystic ceremonies; and 
though it might be innocently employed in the festive 
ornamenting of halls and kitchens, yet it had been deemed 
by the Fathers of the Church as unhallowed, and totally 



CHRISTMAS DA Y. 195 

unfit for sacred purposes. So tenacious was he on this 
point, that the poor sexton was obliged to strip down a 
great part of the humble trophies of his taste, before the 
parson would consent to enter upon the service of the day. 

The interior of the churcli was venerable, but simple; on 
the walls were several mural monuments of the Brace- 
])ridges, and just beside the altar was a tomb of ancient 
workmanship, on which lay the effigy of a warrior in armor, 
with his legs crossed, a sign of his having been a crusader. 
J was told it was one of the family who had signalized 
himself in the Holy Land, and the same whose picture 
hung over the fire-place in the hall. 

During service, Master Simon stood up in the pew, and 
repeated the responses very audibly; evincing that kind of 
ceremonious devotion punctually observed by a gentleman 
of the old school, and a man of old family connections. I 
observed, too, that he turned over the leaves of a folio 
prayer-book with something of a flourish, possibly to show 
off an enormous seal-ring which enriched one of his fingers, 
and which had the look of a family relic. But he was evi- 
dently most solicitous about the musical part of the service, 
keeping his eye fixed intently on the choir, and beating 
time with much gesticulation and emphasis. 

The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a 
most whimsical grouping of heads, piled one above the 
other, among which I particularly noticed that of the vil- 
lage tailor, a pale fellow with a retreating forehead and 
chin, who played on the clarionet, and seemed to have 
blown his face to a point; and there was another, a short 
pursy man, stooping and laboring at a bass viol, so as to 
show nothing but the top of a round bald head, like the 
egg of an ostrich. There were two or three pretty faces 
among the female singers, to which the keen air of a frosty 
morning had given a bright rosy tint: but the gentlemen 
choristers had evidently been chosen, like old Cremona fid- 
dles, more for tone than looks; and as several had to sing 
from the same book, there were clusterings of odd physiog- 
nomies, not unlike those groups of cherubs we sometimes 
see on country tombstones. 

The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably 
well, the vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the 
instrumental, and some loitering fiddler now and then 



196 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

milking up for lost time by travelling over a passage 
with prodigious celerity, and clearing more bars than 
the keenest fox-hunter, to be in at the deatii. But the 
great trial was an antliem that had boon prepared and 
arranged by Master Simon, and on Avhich he had founded 
great expectation. Unluckily there was a blunder at 
the very outset — the musicians became flurried; Master 
Simon was in a fever; everything went on lamely and ir- 
regularly, until they came to a chorus beginning, " Now 
let us sing with one accord," which seemed to be a signal 
for parting company: all became discord and confusion; 
each shifted for himself, and got to the end as well, or, 
rather, as soon as he could; excepting one old chorister, 
in a pair of horn spectacles, bestriding and pinching a long 
sonorous nose; who, happeniiig to stand a little apart, and 
being wrapped up in his own melody, kept on a quavering 
course, wriggling his head, ogling his book, and winding 
all up by a nasal solo of at least three bars' duration. 

The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the rites 
and ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety of observ- 
ing it, not merely as a day of thanksgiving, but of re- 
joicing; supporting the correctness of his opinions by the 
earliest usages of the church, and enforcing them by the 
authorities of Theophilus of Cesarea, St. Cyprian, St. Chrys- 
ostom. Si. Augustine, and a cloud more of Saints and 
Fathers, from whom he made copious quotations. I was a 
little at a loss to perceive the necessity of such a mighty ar- 
ray of forces to maintain a point which no one present 
seemed inclined to dispute; but I soon found that the good 
man had a legion of ideal adversaries to contend with; hav- 
ing, in the course of his researches on the subject of Christ- 
mas, got completely embroiled in the sectarian controver- 
sies of the Eevolution, when the Puritans made such a 
fierce assault upon the ceremonies of the church, and poor 
old Christmas was driven out of the land by proclamation 
of Parliament.* The worthy parson lived but with times 
past, and knew but little of the present. 

* From the " Plying Eaple," a small Gazette, published December a4th, 
1652— "The House spent much time this day about the business of the Navy, 
for settling the affairs at sea, and before they rose, were presented with a ter- 
rible remonstrance against Christmas day, pi-outided upon divine Scriptures, 2 
Cor. V. 16; 1 Cor. xv. 14. 17; and in honour of the Lord's Day, grounded upon 
these Scriptures, .Johu xx. 1; Kev. I. 10; Psalms cxviii. 24; Lev. xx. iii. 7, 11; 
Mark xv. 8; Psalms, Ixxxiv. 10; in wbich Christmas is called Anti-Christ's masse, 



CHRISTMAS DAT. 107 

Sliui lip among worm-oaten tomos in the retirement of 
his anl.i(Hiato(l little study, tlio pages of old times were to 
him as the gazettes of tlu? day; while the era of the devo- 
lution was mere iiKxh^-n history. He foi'got that nearly 
two centuries had ela])sed since the llery persecution of 
2>oor miiice-pi(! throughout the land; when plum porridge 
was denounced as " mvw. ])opcry," and roast beef as anti- 
christian; and that (Jhristmas had bcnui brought in again 
triumphantly with the merry court of King Charles at the 
lUistoration. He kindled into warmth with the ardor of 
!iis contest, and the host of imaginary foes with whom he 
had to combat; he had a stubborn conllict with old I'rynne 
and two or three other forgotten champions of the Round 
Heads, on the subject of (Jhristnuis festivity; and con- 
cluded by urging his hearers, in the most solemn and affect- 
ing manner, to stand to the traditional customs of their 
fathers, and feast and nuike merry on this joyful anniver- 
sary of the church. 

I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently with 
more immediate effects; for on leaving the church, the con- 
gregation seemed one and all possessed with the gayoty of 
spirit so earnestly enjoined by their pastor. 'Y\\g etdor folks 
gathered in knots in the churchyard, greeting and shaking 
hands; and the children ran about crying, "Ule! Ule! 
and repeating some nncouth rhymes,* which the parson, 
who had joined us, informed me, had been handed down 
from days of yore. The villagers doffed their hats to the 
'Scpiire as he passed, giving him the good wishes of the 
season with every a])pearance of heartfelt sincerity, and 
were invited by him to the hall, to take something to keep 
out the cold of the weather; and 1 heard blessings uttered 
by several of the poor, which convinced me that, in the 
midst of his enjoyments, the worthy old cavalier had not 
forgotten the true Christmas virtue of charity. 

On our way homeward, his heart seemed overflowing 
with generous and happy feelings. As we passed over a 

and thoHO Masso-nioiiK'Ts arid Papists who observe it, &(?. In conseqiionco of 
wliich rarliainciil- spnit sinnc tiiiic in (umsultatioii al)otit tlio abolition of 
( 'liristtTiaH (lay, passed orders to tliat effectt,, and ^(^solved to sit on tbo follow- 
iiiK day wlilcli was coniraoiily called t;ln-istinas day." 

♦"lllo! i:ie; 

Three puddings In a pule; 
Creek nuts and cry ulet" 



198 TBE SKETCH-BOOK. 

rising ground which commanded something o*' a prospect, 
the sounds of rustic merriment now and then reached oui 
ears; the 'Squire paused for a few moments, and looked 
around with an air of inexpressible benignity. The beauty 
of the day was, of itself, sufficient to inspire philanthropy. 
Notwithstanding the frostiness of the morning, the sun in 
his cloudless journey had acquired sufficient power to melt 
away the thin covering of snow from every southern decliv- 
ity, and to bring out the living green which adorns an 
English landscape even in mid-winter. Large tracts of 
smiling verdure, contrasted with the dazzling whiteness of 
the shaded slopes and hollows. Every sheltered bank, ou 
which the broad rays rested, yielded its silver rill of cold 
and limpid water, glittering through the dripping grass; 
and sent up slight exhalations to contribute to the thin 
haze that hung just above the surface of the earth. There 
was something truly cheering in this triumph of warmth 
and verdure over the frosty thraldom of winter; it was, as 
the 'Squire observed, an emblem of Christmas hospitality, 
breaking through the chills of ceremony and selfishness, 
and thawing every heart into a flow. He pointed with 
pleasure to the indications of good cheer reeking from the 
chimneys of the comfortable farm-houses, and low thatched 
cottages. "I love,'' said he, "to see this day well kept by 
rich and poor; it is a great thing to have one day in the 
year, at least, when you are sure of being welcome wherevei 
you go, and of having, as it were, the world all thrown open 
to you; and I am almost disposed to join with poor Robin, 
in his malediction on every churlish enemy to this honest 
festival: 

" ' Those who at Christmas do repine, 

And would fain hence despatch him, 
May they with old duke Humphry dine, 
Or else may 'Squire Ketch catch him.'" 

The 'Squire went on to lament the deplorable decay of 
the games and amusements which were once prevalent at 
this season among the lower orders, and countenanced by 
the higher; when the old halls of castles and manor-houses 
Avere thrown open at daylight; when the tables wore 
covered with brawn, and beei, and humming ale; when the 
harp and the carol resounded all day long, and when rich 



CHRISTMAS DAT. 190 

and poor were alike welcome to enter and make merry.* 
" Our old games and local customs," said he, "had a great 
effect in making the peasant fond of his home, and the 
promotion of them by the gentry made him fond of his 
lord. They made the times merrier, and kinder, and bet- 
ter, and I can truly say with one of our old poets, 

" ' I lil?:e them well — the curious preciseness 
And all-pretended gravity ofthose 
That seek to banish hence these harmless sports, 
Have thrust away much ancient honesty.' 

''The nation," continued hCt ''is altered; we have 
almost lost our simple true-hearted peasantry. They have 
broken asunder from the higher classes, and seem to think 
1 lieir interests are separate. They have become too know- 
ing, and begin to read newspapers, listen to alehouse poli- 
ticians, and talk of reform. I think one mode to keep 
them in good humor in these hard times, would be for the 
nobility and gentry to pass more time on their estates, 
mingle more among the country people, and set the merry 
old English games going again." 

Such was the good 'Squire's project for mitigating public 
discontent; and, indeed, he had once attempted to put his 
doctrine in practice, and a few years before had kept open 
house during the holidays in the old style. The country 
people, however, did not understand how to play their 
parts in the scene of hospitality; many uncouth circum- 
stances occurred; the manor was overrun by all the vagrants 
of the country, and more beggars drawn into the neighbor- 
hood in one week than the parish officers could get rid of 
in a year. Since then, he had contented himself with in- 
viting the decent part of the neighboring peasantry to call 
at the Hall on Christmas day, and with distributing beef, 
and bread, and ale, among the poor, that they might make 
merry in their own dwellings. 

We had not been long home when the sound of music 
was heai'd from a distance. A band of country lads, with- 

* " An English gentleman at the opening of the preat day, i. e. on Christmas 
day in the morning, had all his tenants and neighbors enter his hall by day- 
break. The strong beer was broached, and the black jacks wont plentifully 
about with toast, sugar and nutmeg, and good Cheshire cheese. The Hackiii 
(the great sausage) must be boiled by dav-brcak, or else two young men must 
take the maiden (i. e. the cook) by the arms and run her round the market place 
tilltShe Is shamed of her laziness."— i?o«n«i about our Sea-Cool Fire. 



200 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ont coats, had their sleeves fancifully tied with ribbons, 
their hats decorated with greens, and clnbs in their hands, 
were seen advancing up the aveniie, followed by a large 
number of villagers and peasantry. They stopped before 
the hall door, where the music struck up a peculiar air, .• 
and the lads performed a curious and intricate dance, ad- 
vancing, retreating, and striking their clubs together, 
keeping exact time to the music; while one, whimsically 
crowned with a fox's skin, the tail of which flaunted down 
his back, kept capering round the skirts of the dance, and 
rattling a Christmas box with many antic gesticulations. 

The 'Squire eyed this fanciful exliibition with great in- 
terest and delight, and gave me a full account of its origin, 
which he traced to the times when the Romans held pos- 
session of the island; plainly proving that this was a lineal 
descendant of the sword-dance of the ancients. " It was 
now," he said, ''nearly extinct, but he had accidentally 
met with traces of it in the neighborhood, and had encour- 
aged its revival; though, to tell the truth, it was too apt to 
be followed up by rough cudgel-play, and broken heads, in 
the evening." 

After the dance was concluded, the whole party was en- 
tertained with brawn and beef, and stout home-brewed. 
The 'Squire himself mingled among the rustics, and was 
received with awkward demonstrations of deference and 
regard. It is true, I perceived two or three of the younger 
peasants, as they were raising their tankards to their mouths, 
when the 'Squire's back was turned, making something of 
a grimace', and giving each other the wink; but the mo- 
ment they caught my eye they pulled grave faces, and were 
exceedingly demure. With Master Simon , however, they all 
seemed more at their ease. His varied occupations and 
amusements had made him well known throughout the 
neighborhood. He was visitor at every farm-house and 
cottage ; gossiped with the farmers and their wives; romped 
with their daughters; and, like that type of a vagrant 
bachelor the humble-bee, tolled the sweets from all the 
rosy lips of the country round. 

The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before good 
cheer and affability. There is something genuine and 
affectionate in the gayety of the lower orders, when it is 
excited by the bounty and familiarity of those above them; 



CHRISTMAS DA T. 201 

the warm glow of gratitude enters into their mirth, and a 
kind word or a smull pleasantry, frankly uttered by a 
patron, gladdens tlie heart of the dependant more than oil 
and wine. When the "tSquire had retired, the merriment 
increased, and there was more joking and laughter, partic- 
ularly between Master Simon and a hale, ruddy-faced, 
white-headed farmer, who appeared to be the wit of the vil- 
lage; for 1 observed all his com])anions to wait with open 
mouths for his retorts, and burst into a gratuitous laugh 
before they coukl well understand them. 

The whole house, indeed, seemed abandoned to merri- 
ment; as I passed to my room to dress for dinner, I heard 
the sound of music in a small court, and looking through 
a window that commanded it, I perceived a band of wan- 
dering musicians, with pandean pipes, and tambourine; a 
pretty coquettish housemaid wasrlancing a jig with a smart 
country lad, while several of the other servants were look- 
ing on. In the midst of her sport, the girl caught a glimpse 
of my face at the window, and coloring up, ran off with an 
air of roguish affected confusion. 



202 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 

Lo, now is come our joyfurst feast! 

Let every man be jolly, 
Each roome with yvie leaves is drest, 
And every post with holly. 

Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke. 
And Christmas blocks ai-e burning; 

Their ovens they with bak't meats choke. 
And all their spits are turning. 
Without the door let sorrow lie, 
And if, for cold, it hap to die, 
Wee '1 bury 't in a Christmas pye, 
And evermore be merry. 

Withers, Jwsenilia. 

I HAD finished my toilet, and was loitering with Frank 
Bracebridge in the library, when we heard a distant thwack- 
ing sound, which he informed me was a signal for the 
serving up of the dinner. The 'Squire kept up old cus- 
toms in kitchen as well as hall; and the rolling-pin struck 
upon the dresser by the cook, summoned the servants to 
carry in the meats. 

Just in this nick the cook knock'd thrice. 
And all the waiters in a trice, 

His summons did obey; 
Each se'"ving man, with dish in hand. 
Marched boldly up, like our train band, 

Presented, and away.* 

The dinner was served up in the great hall, where the 
'Squire always held his (Christmas banquet. A blazing 
crackling fire of logs had been heaped on to warm the 
spacious apartment, and the flame went sparkling and 
wreathing up the wide-mouthed chimney. The great 
picture of the crusader and his white horse had been pro- 
fusely decorated with greens for the occasion; and holly 
and ivy had likewise been wreathed round the helmet and 
weapons on the opposite wall, which I understood were the 

* Sir John Suckling. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 203 

arms of the same warrior. I must own, by the bye, I had 
strong doubts about the authenticity of the painting and 
armor as having belonged to the crusader, they certainly 
having the stamp of more recent days; but I was told that 
the painting had been so considered time out of mind; and 
thai', as to the armor, it had been found in a lumber-room, 
and elevated to its present situation by the 'Squire, who at 
once determined it to be the armor of the family hero; and 
as he was absolute authority on all such subjects in his own 
household, the matter had passed into current acceptation. 
A sideboard was set out just under this chivalric trophy, on 
which was a display of plate that might have vied (at least 
in variety) with Belshazzar's parade of the vessels of the 
temple; "flagons, cans, cujds, beakers, goblets, basins, and 
ewers;" the gorgeous utensils of good companionship that 
had gradually accumulated through many generations of 
jovial housekeepers. Before these stood the two yule cau- 
dles, beaming like two stars of the first magnitude; other 
lights were distributed in branches, and the whole array 
glittered like a firmament of silver. 

We were ushered into this banqueting scene with the 
sound of minstrelsy; the old harper being seated on a stool 
beside the fire-place, and twanging his instrument with a 
vast deal more power than melody. Never did Christmas 
board display a more goodly and gracious assemblage of 
countenances; those who were not handsome, were, at least, 
happy; and happiness is a rare improver of your hard- 
favored visage. I always consider an old English family as 
well worth studying as a collection of Holbein's portraits, 
or Albert Durer's prints. There is much antiquarian lore 
to be acquired; much knowledge of the physiognomies of 
former times. Perhaps it may be from having continually 
before their eyes those rows of old family portraits, with 
which the mansions of this country are stocked; certain it 
is, that the quaint features of antiquity are often most 
faithfully perpetuated in these ancient lines; and 1 have 
traced an old family nose through a whole picture-gallery, 
legitimately handed down from generation to generation, 
almost from the time of the Conquest. Something of the 
kind was to be observed in the worthy company around me. 
Many of their faces had evidently originated in a Gothic 
age, and been merely copied by succeeding generations; and 



204 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

there was one little girl, in particular, of staid demeanor, 
with a lugli Roman nose, iind an antique vinegar aspoot, 
who was a great favorite of the 'Squire's, being, as he said, 
a Bracebridge all over, and the very counterpart of one of 
his ancestors who figured in the Court of Henry VIII. 

The parson said grace, which was not a short familiar 
one, such as is commonly addressed to the Deity in these 
unceremonious days; but a long, courtly, well-worded one 
of the ancient school. There was now a pause, as if some- 
thing was expected; when suddenly the butler entered the 
hall witli some degree of bustle; lie was attended by a ser- 
vant on each side with a large wax-light, and bore a silver 
dish, on which was an enormous pig's heail, decorated with 
rosemary, with a lemon in its nioutli, which was placed 
with great formality at the head of the table. The mo- 
ment this pageant made its appearance, the harper struck 
up a flourish; at the conclusion of which the young Oxon- 
ian, on receiving a hint from the 'Squire, gave, with an air 
of the most comic gravity, an old carol, the first verse of 
which was as follows: 

Caput apri defero 

Reddens laudes Domino. 
The boar's head in hand bring I, 
With garlands gay and rosemary. 
I pray you all synge merily 

Qui estis in couvivio. 

Though prepared to witness many of these little eccen- 
tricities, from being apprised of the peculiar hobby of mine 
host, yet, I confess, the parade with which so odd a dish 
was introduced somewhat perplexed me, until I gathered, 
from the conversation of the 'Squire and the parson, that it 
was meant to represent the bringing in of the boar's head 
— a dish formerly served up with much ceremony, and the 
sound of minstrelsy and song, at great tables on Christmas 
day. "I like the old custom," said the 'Squire, "not 
merely because it is stately and pleasing in itself, but because 
it was observed at the college at Oxford, at which I was 
educated. When I hear the old song chanted, it brings to 
mind the time when I was young and gamesone — and the 
noble old college hall — and my fellow-students loitering 
about in their black gowns; many of whom, poor lads, are 
now in their graves I'' 



THE CURI8TMA8 DINNER. 205 

The parson, however, whose mind was not haunted by 
such associations, and who was always more taken up with 
tiie text tlian the sentiment, objected to the Oxonian's ver- 
sion of the carol, wliicli he affirmed was dili'erent from that 
sung at college. He went on, with the dry perseverance of 
a commentator, to give the college reading, accompanied 
by sundry annotations; addressing himself at first to the 
company at large; but finding their attention gradually di- 
verted to other talk, and other objects, he lowered his tone 
as his number of auditors diminished, until he concluded 
liis remarks in an under voice, to a fat-headed old gentle- 
man next him, who was silently engaged in the discussion 
of a huge plateful of turkey.* 

The table was literally loaded with good cheer, and pre- 
sented an epitome of country abundance, in this season of 
overflowing larders. A distinguished post was allotted to 
"ancient sirloin," as mine host termed it; being, as he 
added, ''the standard of old English hospitality, and a 
joint of goodly presence, and full of expectation." There 
were several dishes quaintly decorated, and which had evi- 
dently something traditional in their embellishments; but 
about which, as 1 did not like to appear over-curious, I 
asked no questions. 

I could not, however, but notice a pie, magnificently 
decorated with peacocks' feathers, in imitation of the tail 
of that bird, which overshadowed a considerable tract of 
the table. This, the 'Squire confessed, with some little 

* The ok] ceremony of serviiK^ up the boar'n head on ChriHtmas day is still 
observed in the hall ot (Queen's Collef^e, Oxford. I was favored by the pars(,n 
with a copy of the carol as now sun}<, and as it may be acceptable to such of 
my readers as are curious in these grave and learned matters, I give it entire ; 

The boar's head in hand bear I, 
Bedeck'd with bays and rosemary; 
And I pray you, my masters, be merry, 
Quot estis in convivio. 

<,'aput apri defero. 

Keddens laudes Domino. 

The boar's head, as I understand, 
Is the rarest dish in all this land, 
Which thus bedeck'd with a gay garland. 
Let us servire cantico. 
Caput apri defero, &c. 

Our steward hath provided this 
In honor of the King of Bliss, 
Which on this day to be served is 
In Reginensi Atrio. 
Caput apri defero, 
&c., &C., &C. 



206 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

hesitation, was a pheasant pie, though a peacock pie was 
certainly the most authentical; but there had been such a 
mortahty among the peacocks this season, that he could 
not prevail upon himself to have one killed.* 

It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, who 
may not have that foolish fondness for odd and obsolete 
things to which I am a little given, were I to mention the 
other make-shifts of this worthy old humorist, by which 
he was endeavoring to follow up, though at an humble dis- 
tance, the quaint customs of antiquity. I was pleased, 
however, to see the respect shown to his whims by his chil- 
dren and relatives; who, indeed, entered readily into the 
full spirit of them, and seemed all well versed in their 

farts; having doubtless been present at many a rehearsal, 
was amused, too, at the air of profound gravity with 
which the butler and other servants executed the duties as- 
signed them, however eccentric. They had an old-fashioned 
look; having, for the most part, been brought up in the 
household, and grown into keeping with tlie antiquated 
mansion, and the humors of its lord; and most probably 
looked upon all his whimsical regulations as the established 
laws of honorable housekeeping. 

AVhen the cloth was removed, the butler brought in a 
huge silver vessel, of rare and curious workmanship, which 
he placed before the 'Squire. Its appearance was hailed 
with acclamation; being the Wassail Bowl, so renowned in 
Christmas festivity. The contents had been prepared by 
the 'Squire himself; for it was a beverage, in the skillful 
mixture of which he particularly prided himself, alleging 
that it was too abstruse and complex for the comprehen- 
sion of an ordinary servant. It was a potation, indeed, 
that might well make the heart of a toper leap within him; 

* The peacock was anciently in gi-eat demand for stately entertainments. 
Sometimes it was made into a pie, at one end of which the head appeared 
above the crust in all its plumasre, with the beak richly gilt; a tthe other end 
the tail was displayed. Such pies were served up at the solemn banquets of 
chivalry, when Knights-errant pledged themselves to undertake any perilous 
enterprise, whetice came the ancient oath, used by Justice Shallow, " by cock 
and pie." 

The ijeacock was also an important dish for the Christmas feast ; and Mas- 
singer, in his City Madam, gives some idea of the extravagance with which 
this, as well as other dishes, was prepared for the gorgeous revels of the olden 
times: 

Men may talk of Country Christmases. 

Their thirty pound butter'd eggs, their pies of carps' tonsjues: 

Their pheasants drench'd with auibergris: the curca-fcx o/titreefal ivethers 
bruiseU/or gravy to make muce/or a single peacock,' 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 207 

\m\\g composed of the richest and raciest wines, highly 
Hpiced and sweetened, with roasted apples bobbing about 
tlie surface.* 

The old gentleman's whole countenance beamed with a 
serene look of indwelling delight, as he stirred this mighty 
bowl. Having raised it to his lips, with a hearty wish of 
a merry Christmas to all present, he sent it brimming 
round the board, for every one to follow his example accord- 
ing to the primitive style; pronouncing it "the ancient 
fountain of good feeling, where all hearts met together." \ 

There was much laughing and rallying, as the honest 
emblem of Christinas joviality circulated, and was kissed 
rather coyly by the ladies. But when it reached Master 
Simon, he raised it in ])oth hands, and with the air of a 
boon companion, struck up an old Wassail Chanson: 

The brown bowle, 

The merry brown bowle, 

As it goes round about-a, 

Fill 

Still, 
Let the world say what it will. 
And drink your fill all out-a. 

The deep canne, 

The merry deep canne, 

As thou dost freely quaff-a. 

Sing 

Fling, 
Be as merry as a king, 
And sound a lusty laugh-a.J 



* The Wassail Bowl was sometimes composed of ale instead of wine; with 
nut-meg, sugar, toast, ginger, and roasted crabs; in this way the nut-brown 
))everage is still prepared in some old families, and round the hearth of sub- 
stantial farmers at Christmas. It is also called Lamb's Wool, and it Is cele- 
brated by Herrick in his Twelfth Night: 

Next crowne the bowle full 

With gentle Lamb's Wool, 
Aild sugar, niit7ueg, and ginger, 

Witli stf>re of ale too. 

And thus ye must doe 
To make the Wassaile a swinger. 

+ " The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave place to each having 
his cup. When the steward came to the doore with the Wassel, he was to cry 
three times, Waf:.^(l. Wassel, Wa.-^sel, and thou „the chappell (chaplaiuj was t<i 
answer with a aowg."— A rchitologiu. 

X Fnjia Poor Robin's Almanack. 



208 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

jViuch of the conversation during dinner turned npon 
family topics, to which I was a stranger. There was, liow- 
ever, a great deal of rallying of Master Simon about some 
gay widow, with whom he was accused of having a flirta- 
tion. This attack was commenced by the ladies; but it 
was continued throughout the dinner by the fat-headed old 
gentleman next the parson, with the persevering assiduity 
of a slow hound; being one of these long-winded jokers, 
who, though rather dull at starting game, are unrivalled 
for their talents in hunting it down. At every pause in the 
general conversation, he renewed his bantering in pretty 
much the same terms; winking hard at me with both eyes, 
whenever he gave Master Simon what he considered a 
home thrust. The latter, indeed, seemed fond of being 
teased on the subject, as old bachelors are apt to be; and 
he took occasion to inform me, in an undertone, that the 
lady in question was a prodigiously fine woman, and drove 
her own curricle. ^ 

The dinner-time passed away in this flow of innocent 
hilarity, and though the old hall may have resounded in its 
time with many a scene of broader rout and revel, yet I 
doubt whether it ever witnessed more honest and genuine 
enjoyment. How easy it is for one benevolent being to 
diffuse pleasure around him; and how truly is a kind 
heart a fountain of gladness, making everything in its 
vicinity to freshen into smiles! The joyous disposition of 
the worthy 'Squire was perfectly contagious; he was happy 
himself, and disposed to make all the world happy; and 
the little eccentricities of his humor did but season, in a 
manner, the sweetness of his philanthropy. 

When the ladies had retired, the conversation, as usual, 
became still more animated: many good things were 
broached which had been thought of during dinner, but 
which would not exactly do for a lady's ear; and though I 
cannot positively affirm that there was much wit uttered, 
yet I have certainly heard many contests of rare wit pro- 
duce much less laughter. Wit, after all, is a mighty tart, 
pungent ingredient, and much too acid for some stomachs; 
but honest good-humor is the oil and wine of a merry 
meeting, and there is no jovial companionship equal to 
that, where the jokes are rather small, and the laughter 
abundant. 



THE GHBI8TMA8 DINNER. 209 

The 'Squire told several long stories of early college 
pranks and adventures, in some of which the parson had 
been a sharer; though in looking at the latter, it required 
some effort of imagination to figure such a little dark anat- 
omy of a man into the perpetrator of a madcap gambol. 
Indeed, the two college chums presented pictures of what 
men may be made by theii- dilTerent lots in life; the 'Squire 
had left the university to live lustily on his paternal do- 
mains, in the vigorous enjoyment of prosperity and sun- 
shine, and had flourished on to a hearty and florid old age; 
whilst the poor parson, on the contrary, had dried and 
withered away, among dusty tomes, in the silence and 
shadows of his study. Still there seemed to be a spark 
of almost extinguished tire feebly glimmering in the bottom 
of his soul; and, as the 'Squire hinted at a sly story of the 
parson and a pretty milkmaid whom they once met on the 
banks of the Isis, the old gentleman made an ''alphabet of 
faces," which, as far as I could decipher his physiognomy, 
I verily believe was indicative of laughter; — indeed, I have 
rarely met with an old gentleman that took absolute offence 
at the imputed gallantries of his youth. 

I founcl the tide of wine and wassail fast gaining on the 
dry land of sober judgment. The company grew merrier 
and louder, as their jokes grew duller. Master Simon was 
in as chipper a humor as a grasshopper filled with dew; his 
old songs grew of a warmer complexion, and he began to 
talk maudlin about the widow. He even gave a long song 
about the wooing of a widow, which he informed me he 
had gathered from an excellent black-letter work entitled 
" Cupid's Solicitor for Love; " containing a store of good ad- 
vice for bachelors, and which he promised to lend me; the 
first verse was to this effect: 

He tliat will woo a widow must not dally. 
He must make bay while the sun doth shine. 

He must not stand with her, shall I, shall I, 
But boldly say, Widow, thou must be mine. 

This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, who 
made several attempts to tell a rather broad story of Joe 
Miller, that was pat to the purpose; but he always stuck in 
the middle, everybody recollecting the latter part excei3ting 
himself. The parson, too, began to show the effects of 



210 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

good cheer, having gradually settled down into a doze, and 
his wig sitting most suspiciously on one side. Just at this 
juncture, we were summoned to the drawing-room, and I 
suspect, at the private insLigaLiun o£ mine host, whose jovi- 
ality seemed always tempered with a proper love of de- 
corum. 

After the dinner-table was removed, the hall was given 
up to the younger members of the family, who, prompted 
to all kind of noisy mirth by the Oxonian and Master 
Simon, made its old walls ring with their merriment, as 
they played at romping games. I delight in witnessing the 
gambols of children, and particularly at this happy holiday 
season, and could not help stealing out of the drawing- 
room on hearing one of their peals of laughter. I found 
them at the game of blind-man's-buff. Master Simon, who 
was the leader of their revels, and seemed on all occasions 
to fulfill the oflficc of that ancient potentate, the Lord^of 
Misrule,* was blinded in the midst of the hall. The little 
beings were as busy about him as the mock fairies about 
Falstaff; pinching him, plucking at the skirts of his coat, 
and tickling him with straws. One fine blue-eyed girl of 
about thirteen, with her flax(>n hair all in beautiful con- 
fusion, her frolic face in a glow, her frock half torn off her 
shoulders, a complete picture of a romp, was the chief tor- 
mentor; and from the slyness with which Master Simon 
avoided the smaller game, and hemmed this wild little 
nymph in corners, and obliged her to jump shrieking over 
chairs, I suspected the rogue of being not a whit more 
blinded than was convenient. 

When I returned to the drawing-room, I found the com- 
pany seated round the fire, listening to the parson, who 
was deeply ensconced in a high-backed 02)en chair, the work 
of some cunning artificer of yore, which had been brought 
from the library for his particular accommodation. From 
this venerable piece of furniture, with which his shadowy 
figure and dark weazen face so admirably accorded, he was 
dealing forth strange accounts of the popular superstitions 
and legends of the surrounding country, with which he had 
become acquainted in the course of his antiquarian rc- 

* At Christmas there was in the Kinses house, wheresoever hee was lodged, 
a lorde of misrule, or mayster of merle disportes, and the lilce had ye in the 
house of every nobleman of honor; or good worahippe, were he spirituall or 
temporall.— Stow. 



THE CHRTSTMAS DINNER. 211 

searches. T am inclined to think that the old gentleman 
was himself somewhat tinctured with superstition, as men 
are very apt to be, wiio live a recluse and studious life in a 
.sequestered part of tlie country, and ])ore over black-letter 
tracts, so often filled with the marvellous and supernatural. 
lie gave us several anecdotes of the fancies of the neighbor- 
ing peasantry, concei'uing the ettigy of the crusader, which 
lay on the tomb by the church altar. As it was the only 
monument of the kind in that part of the country, it had 
always been regarded with feelings of superstition by the 
good wives of the village. It was said to get up from the 
tomb and walk the rounds of the churchyard in stormy 
nights, particularly when it thundered; and one old woman, 
whose cottage bordered on th(! churchyard, had seen it 
through the windows of the church, when the moon shone, 
slowly pacing up and down the aisles. It was the belief 
that some wrong had been left unredressed by the deceased, 
oi- some treasure hidden, which kept the spirit in a state 
of trouble and restlessness. Some talked of gold and jew- 
els bui'ied in the tomb, over which the spectre kept watch; 
and there was a story current of a sexton, in old times, who 
endeavored to break his way to the colli n at 7iight; but just 
as he reached it received a violent blow from the marble 
hatul of the effigy, which stretchcnl him senseless on the 
pavement. These tales were often laughed at by some of 
the sturdier among the rustics; yet, when night came on, 
there were many of the stoutest unbelievers that were shy 
of venturing alone in the footpath that led across the 
churchyard. 

From these and other anecdotes that followed, the cru- 
sader appeared to be the favorite hero of ghost stories 
throughout the vicinity. His picture, which hung up in 
the hall, was thought by tin; servants to have something 
supernatural about it: for they remarked that, in whatever 
jjart of the hall you went, tlie eyes of the warrior were still 
fixed on you. The old porter's wife, too, at the lodge, who 
had been born and bi'ought uj) in the family, and was a 
great gossip ainong the nuiid-servants, afUrmed, that in her 
young days she had often heard say, that on Midsummer 
eve, when it was well known all kinds of ghosts, goblins, 
and fairies, become visible and walk abroad, tlie crusader 
used to mount his horse, come down from his picture, ride 



212 THE SKKrcn-BOOK. 

:ih(>ut the house, down the hvimuio. aiul so to tlio dinroli to 
visit tlio tomb; on wliich occasion tlie cluircli (lot>r most 
oivilly swung open of itself; not llmt he ueinloJ it — for ho 
rode tlirough eloseil gates ami even stone ualls, and liad 
been seen by one of the dairy-maids to pa^s between two 
bars of the great })ark gate, making himself as thin as a 
sheet of i)apei\ 

All these superstitions I l\)und had been very much 
countenaneed by the 'Squire, who, though not superstitious 
himself, was very fond of seeing others so. lie listened to 
every goblin tale of the neighboring gossi])s with inlinite 
gravity, aiul hehl the porter's wife in high favor on ai'eount 
of her tahMit for the marvellous. He was himself a great 
reader of old legends and romanees. and often lamented 
that he could not believe in them; for a su[)erstitious })er- 
son. he thought, must live in a kind of fairy huuh 

Whilst we were all attention to the parson's stt)ries. onr 
ears were suddenly assailed by a. burst of heterogeneous 
sounds from the hall, in which were mingled scMnelhing like 
the clang of rude minstrelsy, with the uinoar of nuiny 
snuiU voices and girlish laughter, The iloor suddenly Hew 
open, and a train came trooping into the room, that might 
almost have been mistaken for the breaking uj) of the 
court of Fairy. That indefatigable spirit. Master Simon, 
in the faithful discharge of his duties as lord of misrule, 
had conceived the idea of ;i C^hristmas mummery, or nuisk- 
ing; and having calleil in to his assistance the ()xonianand 
the young officer, who were eiiually ripe foi' anything that 
should occasion romping and merriment, they had carried 
it into instant eiVect. The old housekeeper had been ron- 
sulted; the anticpie clothes-})resses and wardrobes rum- 
maged, and made to yield u}) the relics of tinei-y that had 
not seen the light for several generations; the younger part 
of the company had beuu privately convened from parlor 
and hall, and the whole had been bedizened out, into a 
burlesque imitation of an antique masque.* 

Master Simon led the van as " Aiuuent (.'hristmas," 
quaintly apparelled in a ruff, a short cloak, which had very 
much the aspect of one of the old housekeeper's petticoats, 

♦ MaskiuKS >>r imiinnu'rics wore fnvorito sports ;it Clirlstiiins, in old tiines, 
and tlu> wanirolii's at halls and niaiior-lionsfs wi>ro ol'ion laid imdctM'ontriliu- 
tiou to furnish dresses and fantastic ilistfuisinK's. 1 strongly snspcci Master 
titmou tu have taken the ideu uf hia fi\)m Ben Jousun's Mask of Christmas. 



TIIK (JIIRI8TMAH DINNER. 2V.i 

and a hat, that rni^lit have servecl for a village steeple ami 
must iii'lMbit,HV)ly have figured in the days of the (Jovenant- 
erH. Kroni under this, his nose eurved hf>ldly foith, flushed 
willi a frost-bitten bloom that seemed the very tro])hy of a 
Dceernber blast. He wjas accompanied by the blue-eyed 
rornj), dished up as " Dame Mince i'ie," in the venerable 
magniticenf;(; of faded brtjcade, long stomacher, peaked hat 
and high-heeled sho(!S. 

The young oflicer a[)peai-ed as Robin Hood, in a sport- 
ing dress of Kendal green, and a foraging cap with a gold 
tassel. 

The costume, to be sure, did not bear testimony to deep 
reseai'ch, and there was an evident eye to the picturesoue 
natui-al to a young gallant in preseiu;eof his mistress. The 
fair .lulia hung on his ami in a pretty rustic dress, as 
'* Maid Marian." 'J'he rest of the train had been metamor- 
phosed in various ways; the girls trussed up in the Hneryof 
th(! ancient belles of the Jiracebi'idge liiu;, arul the strip- 
lings bewhiskered with burnt cork, and gravely clad in 
broad skirts, banging sleeves, and full-bottomed wigs, to 
njpresent the characters of Roast Beef, I'lnm I'udding, and 
other worthies celebi-at.cd in ancient maskings. Tlie whole 
was under the control of the Oxonian, in the a}»propriate 
character of Misrule; and I obsei'ved that he exercised 
rather a mischievous sway with his wand over the smaller 
personages of the pageant. 

The irruption of this motley crew, with beat of drum, ac- 
cording to ancient custom, was the consummation of uproar 
an<l merriment. Master Simon covered himself with glory 
by the stateliness with which, as Ancient (Christmas, he 
walked a minuet with the peerless, though giggling, Dame 
Mince J'ie. It was followed by a dance from all the char- 
acters, whicli, from its medley of costumes, seemed as 
though tlie old family portraits had skipped down from 
their frames to join in the sport. Different centuries were 
figuring at cross-hands and right and left; the dark ages 
were cutting riirouettes and rig;i,doons; and the days of 
Queen Bess, jigging merrily down the middle, through a 
line of succe(;ding generations. 

The worthy 'S()iiire contem])lated these fantastic sports, 
and this resuri'ection of his old wardrobe, with the sinip'le 
relish of chiidisli delight. He stood chuckling and rubbing 



SU TUF SKF.TCn-nOOK. 

his liandt;. aud vscarcoly hearing a won! the parson s;iid. not- 
Avithstandini: that tlu^ latter was discoursing: most anthon- 
tically on tho anoiont. antl statoly danoo of the l\ivon. or 
j)oaoook, from which ho oouooivod the minuet to be de- 
rived.* For my ]Kirt, I was in a oontinual excitement 
from the varied scenes of wlun\ and innocent gayety pass- 
ing before me. It was inspiring to see wild-eyed frolic 
and warm-hearted hospitality breaking out from among 
the chills and glooms of winter, and old age throwing ofr 
his aiuthy. and catching once more the freshness of youth- 
ful enjoyment. I felt also an interest in the scene, from 
the consiilcration that these fleeting customs were posting 
fast into oblivion, and that this was, perha[)s. the only 
family in Kngland in which the whole of them were still 
}uinctiliously observed. There was a qmvintness, too. 
mingled with all this revelry, that gave it a pecidiar /.est : 
it was suiteil to the time ami place; and as the old manor- 
house almost reeled with mirth and wassail, it secMucd echo- 
ing back the joviality of long-dei)arted years. 



But enough of Christmas atid its gambols: it is tinu* for 
nic to pause in this garrulity. Methinks I hear the (pu\s- 
tion asKcd by my graver readers. "To what jniriiose is all 
this — how is the worlil to be made wiser by this talk?" 
AlasI is there not wisdom enough extant iov the instruction 
of the world? And if not. are there not thousands of abler 
])ens laboring for its improviMuent? — It is so much pleas- 
anter to please than to instruct — to play tlu> companion 
rather than the preceptor. 

What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that T c«nild throw 
ittto the mass of knowledge; or how am I sure that niv 
sagest deductions may be safe guidi's for the opinions of 
others? But in writiiig to atnusc. if 1 fail, the only evil is 
my own disappointment. If, however. I can by any Im-ky 
chance, in these days of evil, rub out one wrinkle from the 
brow of care, or beguile the heavy heart of one moment of 



* sir Jdliii Ibiwkins, spoakitiir of tlio diiin'O ciillod llic I';iv(.ii, from piivo, h 
poacoc'k, says: " M is a snivr and inaji'stic iiMiU'c: Ilio motliodoi" ilaiichijr It. 
Riioipntly was \iy ctMitlomon tlr-'ssod with i-a^^s ami swords; l>y tiioso of (ho 
loii^r rulio In ilunrsowiis; liy tlu' vu-crs in tlirn- niantl'-s, .nid by (lu> ladi"s In 
j^owns witli long trains, the motion wlioroof, in dant'inir. rfS(>n\blod that »>f ii 
peacock."— //«.<<t/ry qf Music. 



THK CUIlfBTMAH DINNER. 2\h 

Horrow — if I can now and then penetrate through the 
gathering film of rninanthropy, prompt a benevolent view 
of human nature, and make my reader more in good 
humor with hi.-; fellow heingH and himself, surely, aurely, I 
ahall not then have written entirely in vain. 



216 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 

What I write is most true. * * * * I have a whole booke of cases 
iving by me, which if I should sette foorth, some grave auntieats 
luithin the hearing of Bow bell) would be out of charity with me. — 

X.VSH. 

Ix the centre of the great City of London lies a small 
neighborhood, consisting of a cluster of narrow streets and 
courts, of very venerable and debilitated houses, whidi 
goes by the name of Little Britain. Christ Churcli 
school and St. Bartholomew's hospital bound it on the wesb; 
Smithfield and Long lane on the north; Aldersgate-strfeet, 
like an arm of the sea, divides it from the eastern part of 
the city; whilst the yawning gulf of Bull-and-Mouth-street 
separates it from Butcher lane, and the regions of Newgate. 
Over this little territory, thus bounded and designated, tiie 
great dome of St. Paul's, swelling above the intervening 
houses of Paternoster Row, Amen Corner, and Ave-Maria 
lane, looks down with an air of motherly protection. 

This quarter derives its appellation from having been, in 
ancient times, the residence of the Dukes of Brittany. As 
London increased, however, rank and fashion rolled of to 
the west, and trade, creeping on at their heels, took posses- 
sion of their deserted abodes. For some time, Lttle 
Britain became the great mart of learning, and was peopled 
by the busy and prolific race of booksellers: tliese also 
gradually deserted it, and emigrating beyond the freat 
strait of Newgate-street, settled down in Paternoster Row 
and St. Paul's Church- yard; where they continue to in- 
crease and multiply, even at the present day. 

But though thus fallen into decline, Ijittle Britain still 
bp;u's traces of its former splendor. There are sereral 
houses, ready to tumble down, the fronts of which are mag- 
r.iiicently enriched with old oaken carvings of hideous. 
fa>03, unknown birds, beasts, and fishes; and fruits and 
flowers, which it would perplex a naturalist to clasiify. 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 217 

Thore are also, in Aldersgate-street, certain remains of 
what were once spacious and lordly family mansions, but 
which have in latter days been subdivided into several tene- 
ments. Here may often be found the family of a petty 
tradesman, with its trumpery furniture, burrowing among 
the relics of antiquated linery, in great rambling time- 
stained apartments, with fretted ceilings, gilded cornices, 
and enormous marble fii'e-i)laces. 1'he lanes and courts 
also contain many smaller houses, not on so grand a scale; 
but, like your small ancient gentry, sturdily maintaining 
their claims to equal antiquity. These have their gable- 
ends to the street: great bow-windows, with diamond panes 
set in lead; grotesque carvings; and low-arched doorways.* 

In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have I 
passed several quiet years of existence, comfortably lodged 
in the second floor of one of the smallest, but oldest edifices. 
My sitting-room is an old wainscoted chamber, with small 
panels, and set off with a miscellaneous array of furniture. 
1 have a particular respect for three or four high-backed, 
chiw-footed chairs, covered with tarnished brocade, which 
bear the marks of having seen better days, and have doubt- 
less figured in some of the old palaces of Little Britain. 
They seem to me to keep together, and to look down with 
sovereign contempt upon their leathern-bottom neighbors; 
as I have seen decayed gentry carry a high head among the 
plebeian society with which they were reduced to associate. 
The whole front of my sitting-room is taken up with a bow- 
window; on the panes of which are recorded the names of 
previous occupants for many generations; mingled with 
scraps of very indifferent gentleman-like poetry, written in 
cliaracters which I can scarcely decipher; and which extol 
the charms of many a beauty of Little Britain, who has 
long, long since bloomed, faded, and passed away. As I 
am an idle personage, with no apparent occupation, and 
pay my bills regularly every week, I am looked upon as the 
only independent gentleman of the neighborhood; and 
being curious to learn the internal state of a community so 
apparently shut up within itself, I have managed to work 
my way into all the concerns and secrets of the place. 

Little Britain may truly be called the heart's core of the 

* It is evideut that the author of this interesting communication has in- 
cluded in his general title of Little Britain, many of those little lanes and courts 
that belong immediately to the Cloth Fair. .. 



218 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

city; the stronghold of true John BiiUism. It is a frag- 
ment of London as it was? in its better days, with its anti- 
quated folks and fashions. Here flourish in great preser- 
vation many of tlie holiday games and customs of yore. 
The inhabitants most religiously eat pancakes on Shrove 
Tuesday; hot-cross-bnns on (tood-Friday. and roast goose 
at Michaelmas; they send love-letters on Valentine's day; 
burn the Pope on the Fifth of "November, and kiss all the 
girls under the mistletoe at Christmas. Roast beef and 
plum-pudding are also held in superstitious veneration, 
and port and sherry maintain their grounds as the only true 
English wines — all others being considered vile outlandish 
beverages. 

Little Britain has its long catalogue of city Avonders, which 
its inhabitants consider the wonders of the world: snch as 
the great bell of St. Panl's, which sours all the beer when 
it tolls; the ligures that strike the hours at St. Dnnstan's 
clock; the JMonument; the lions in the Tower; and the 
wooden giants in Guildhall. They still believe in dreams 
and fortune-telling; and an old woman that lives in Rull- 
and-Mouth-street nuikes a tolerable subsistence by detecting 
stolen goods, and promising the girls good husbands. They 
are apt to be rendered uncomfortable by comets and eclipses; 
and if a dog howls dolefully at night, it is looked upon as 
a sure sign of a death in the place. I'here are even many 
ghowst stories curreiit. })articularly concerning the old man- 
sion-houses; in several of which it is said strange sights are 
sometimes seen. Lords and ladies, the former in full-bot- 
tomed wigs, hanging sleeves and swords, the latter in lap- 
pets, stays, hoops, and brocade, have been seen walking nj) 
and down the great waste chambers, on moonlight niglits; 
and are supposed to be the shades of the ancient proprietors 
in their court-dresses. 

Little Britain has likewise its sages and great men. Oiu> 
of the most important of the former is a tall dry old gentle- 
man, of the name of Skryme, who keeps a small apothe- 
cary's shop. He has a cadaverous countenance, full of 
cavities and projections; wiWi a, brown circle round each 
eye, like a pan- of horn siiectacles. He is much thought of 
by the old women, who consider him as a kind of conjuror, 
because he has two or three stulTod alligators hanging up 
in his shop, and several snakes in bottles. He is a great 



LITTLE BRTTA FN. 219 

reader of almanacK and newspapers, and is much given to 
pore ovfr alarrniiig aocoiintK of plots, conspiracies, firen, 
earthf|uai<e8, and volcanic eruptions; which last phenomena 
he considers as signs of the times. He has always some 
dismal tale of the kind to deal out to his customers, with 
their dose; and thus at the same time puts hoth hody and 
soul into an uproar. He is a great believer in omens and 
predictions; and has the prophecies of Ilobert Nixon and 
Mother .Shipton by heart. No man can make so much out 
of an eclipse, or even an unusually dai'k day; and he shook 
the tail of tlie last comet over the heads of his customers 
and disciples, until they were nearly frightened out of their 
wits. He has lately got hold of a popular legend or pro- 
phecy, on which he has been unusiuilly eloquent. There 
lias been a saying current among the ancient Sybils, who 
treasure up these thing.s, that when the grasshopper on the 
top of thu Kxehange shook hands with the dragon on the 
top of How Church steeple, fearful events would take place. 
This strange conjunction, it seems, has as strangely come 
to pass. The same architect has been engaged lately on 
the repairs of the cupola of the Exchange, and the steeple 
of JJow Church; and, fearful to relate, tlie dragon and the 
grasshopper actually lie, cheek by jowl, in the yard of his 
workshop. 

"Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to say, "may 
go star-ga;cing, and look for conjunctions in the heavens, 
but here is a conjunction on the earth, near at home, and 
under our own eyes, whi(;h surpasses all the signs and cal- 
culations of astrologers." Since these portentous weather- 
cocks hav(j thus laid their heads togethei', wonderful events 
had already occuiTcd. The good old king, notwithstand- 
ing that he had lived eighty-two years, had all at once 
given up the ghost; another king had mounted the throne; 
a royal duk(! had died siuhlenly — another, in France, had 
been murdered; there had been radical meetings in all 
parts of the kingdom; the bloody scenes at Manchester — 
the great plot in Cato-street; — and, above all, the Queen 
had returned to England! All these sinister events are re- 
counted by Mr. Skryme with a mysterious look, and a dis- 
mal shake of the head; and being taken with his drugs, 
arul associated in the minds <jf liis auditors with stuffed 
sea-monsters, bottled serpents, and his own visage, which 



220 THE SKETGU-BOOK. 

is ii title-page of tribulHtion, they have spi'ead great gloom 
through the minds of the people in Little Hritiiiii. They 
shake their heads whenever they go by Bow Church, and 
observe, that they never expectcil any good to come of 
taking down that steei)le, which, in old times, told nothing 
but glad tidings, as the history of Whittington and his cat 
bears witness. 

The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substantial cheese- 
monger, who lives in a fragment of one of the old family 
mansions, and is as niagnilieently lodged as a round-bellied 
mite in the midst of one of his own Cheshires. Lideed, 
he is a man of no little standing and importance; and his 
renown extends through lluggin lane, and Lad lane, and 
even unto Aldermanbury. llis opinion is very much taken 
in the affairs of state, having read the Sunday ])apers for 
the last iialf century, together with the (Jentleman's 
Magazine, Uapin's History of Englaiul, and tlie Naval 
Chronicle. Ilis head is stored with invaluable nuTXims, 
which have borne the test of time and use for centuries. 
It is his (irm opinion that **it is a moral im])ossible." so 
long as England is true to herself, that anythi'Ug can shake 
her: and he has much to say on tlie subject of the national 
debt; which, sonmhow or other, he proves to be a great 
natioiuil bulwark and blessing. He passed the greater 
part of his life in the purlieus of Little Britain, until of late 
years, when having become rich, and grown into the 
dignity of a Sunday cane, he begins to take his pleasure 
and sec the world. He has therefore made several excur- 
sions to Hampstetul, llighgate, and other neighboring 
towns, where he has passed whole afternoons in looking 
back upon the metropolis thrwigh a telescope, and en- 
deavoring to descry the steeple of St. Bartholomew's. Not 
a stage-coachman of Bull-and-Mouth-street but touches his 
hat as he passes; and he is considered quite a patron at the 
coach-oilico of the Coose and Cridiron, St. Paul's Church- 
yard. His family have been very urgent for him to make 
an expedition to Margate, but he has great doubts of these 
new grimcracks the steamboats, and indeed thinks himself 
too advanced in life to undertake sea-voyages. 

Little Britain has occasionally its factions and divisions, 
and party spirit ran very iiigh at one time, in consequence 
of two rival "Burial Societies" being set up in the place. 



LITTLE BIIITAIN. 2^1 

One held its niecLiti^ til LIk; Swan and Horse-Shoe, and 
was patronized by the checsemoMgers; tlio otlier at the 
(jo.;k and Crown, under tiie auspices of the apotiiecary: it 
is needless to say, tiuit the latter was the most flourisliing. 
1 have passed an evening or two at each, and have acquired 
much valuable information as to tlic best mode of b(!ing 
buried; the compai'ative merits of churchyards; togethei- 
witii divers hints on the subject of patent iron cofilins. I 
}iav<! heai'd tlie (juestion <ii>icussed in all its bearings, as to 
the higality of prohibiting the latter on account of their 
durability." 'i'he feuds occasioned by these societies have 
lia[)pily (Jied away of late; but they were for a long time 
jii'cvailing thenuis of conti'oversy, the peoph; of fjittle 
Ijritain b(!ing extremely solicitous of funeral honors, and 
of lying comfortaldy in their graves. 

Besides tlusse two funeral societies, there is a third of 
quite a dill'erent cast, which tends to throw the sunshim; of 
good-lmmor over the; whole neighborhood. It nuiets once 
a week at a little old-fashioned house, kept by a jolly pub- 
lican of the name of Wagstaff, and bearing for insignia a 
resplendent ^M'.lf-rnoon, with a most seductive bunch of 
gra])es. The whole edifi(!e is covered with inscri])tions to 
<;atch the eye of the thirsty wayfarer; such as " Truman, 
J Ian bury & Co.'s Entire," " Wine, Kum, and Brandy 
Vaults," "Old Tom, Uum, and (Jomj)ounds, &c." 'J'his, 
indeed, has l)een a temple of Bacclius and Momus, from 
time immemorial. It has always been in the family of the 
Wagstalfs, so that its history is tolerably [)reserved by the 
present landlord. It was much frequented by the gallants 
and cavalieros of the reign of hjlizabeth, and was looked 
into now and then by the wits (Jharlcs the Second's day. 
Jiut what Wagstaff principally prides himself upon, is, that 
Henry the Eighth, in one of his nocturnal rambles, broke 
the head of oiui of his ancestors with his iiunous walking- 
stalT. This, however, is considei'ed as rather a dubious 
and vain-glorious boast of the landlord. 

The club which now holds its weekly sessions here, goes 
by the name of " the lioaring Lads of Little liritain." 'i'hey 
abound in all catches, glees, and choice stories, that are 
traditional in the ]jlace, and not to be met with in any 
other part of the metropolis. There is a madc!i]> under- 
taker, who is inimitable at a merry song; but the life of the 



22S 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



club, and indeed the prime wit of Little Britain, is bully 
WagstafE himself. His ancestors were all wags before him, 
and he has inherited with the inn a large stock of songs and 
jokes, which go with it from generation to generation as 
heir-looms. He is a dapper little fellow, with bandy legs 
and pot belly, a red face with a moist merry eye, and a little 
shock of gray hair behind. At the opening of every club 
night, he is called in to sing his " Confession of Faith,"* 
which is the famous old drinking troll from Gammer 

* As mine host of the Half-Moon's Confession of Faith may not be familiiir 
to the majority of readers, and as it is a specimen of the current son^s of Little 
Britain, I subjoin it in its original orthograi^hy. I would observe, that the 
whole club always join in the chorus with a fearful thumping on the table and 
clattering of pewter-pots. 

I cannot eate but lytle meate. 

My stomacke is not good, 
But sui-e I thinke that I can drinke 

With him that weares a hood. 
Though I go bare take ye no care, 

I nothing am a colde, 
I stuff my skyn so full within, 

Of joly good ale and olde. 

Chorus. Back and syde go bare, go bare. 
Both foot and band go colde. 
But belly, God send thee good ale ynoughe. 
Whether it be new or olde. 

I have no rost, but a nut brown toste 

And a crab laid in the fyre; 
A little breade shall do me steade. 

Much breade I not desjTe. 
No frost, nor snow, nor winde I trowe. 

Can hurt me if I wolde, 
I am so wrapt and throwly lapt 

Of joly good ale and olde. 

Chants. Back and syde go bare, go bare, &c. 

And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe, 

Loveth well good ale to seeke. 
Full oft drynkes she, tyll ye may see 

The teai'es run down her cheeke. 
Then doth shee trowle to me the bowle, 

Even as a maulte-worme sholde. 
And sayth, sweete harte, I tooke my parte 

Of this joly good ale and olde. 

Chorus. Back and syde go bare, go bare, &c. 

Now let them drynke, tyll they nod and winke^ 

Even as goode fellowes sholde doe, 
They shall not mysse to have the blisse. 

Good ale doth bring men to. 
And all poor soules that have seowred bowles. 

Or have them lustily trolde, 
God save the Ij-ves of them and their wives, 

\\Tiether they be yonge or olde. 

Chcnia. Back and syde go bare, go bai-e, &c. 



LITTLE BRIT Am. 323 

Gurton^s needle. He sings it, to be sure, with many varia- 
tions, as he received it from his father's lips; for it had 
been a standing favorite at the Half-Moon and Bunch of 
Grapes ever since it was written; nay, he affirms that his 
predecessors have often had the honor of singing it before 
the nobility and gentry at Christmas mummeries, when 
Little Britain was in all its glory. 

It would do one's lieart good to hear on a club-night the 
shouts of merriment, the snatches of song, and now and 
then the choral bursts of half-a-dozen discordant voices, 
which issue from this jovial mansion. At such times the 
street is lined with listeners, who enjoy a delight equal to 
tliat of gazing into a confectioner's window, or snuffing up 
the steams of a cook-shop. 

There are two annual events which produce great stir 
and sensation in Little Britain; these are St. Bartholomew's 
Fair, and the Lord Mayor's day. During the time of the 
Fair, which is held in the adjoining regions of Smithfield, 
there is nothing going on but gossiping and gadding about. 
The late quiet streets of Little Britain are overrun with an 
irruption of strange figures and faces; — every tavern is a 
scene of rout and revel. The fiddle and the song are 
heard from the tap-room, morning, noon, and night; and 
at each wiiidow may be seen some group of boon com- 
panions, with half-shut eyes, hats on one side, pipe in 
mouth, and tankard in hand, fondling and prozing, and 
singing maudlin songs over their liquor. Even the sober 
decorum of private families, which I must say is rigidly 
kept up at other times among my neighbors, is no proof 
against this Saturnalia. There is no such thing as keeping 
maid servants within doors. Their brains are absolutely 
set madding with Punch andthe Puppet Show; the Flying 
Horses; Siguier Polito; the Fire-Eater; the celebrated Mr. 
Paap, and the Irish Giant. The children, too, lavish all 
their holiday money in toys and gilt gingerbread, and fill 
the house with the Liliputian din of drums, trumpets, and 
penny whistles. 

But the Lord Mayor's day is the great anniversary. The 
Lord Mayor is looked up to by the inhabitants of Little 
Britain as the greatest potentate upon earth; his gilt coach, 
with six horses, as the summit of human splendor; and his 
procession, with all the Sheriffs and Aldermen in his train. 



^24 TEE SKETCH-BOOK, 

as Lhe grandest of earthly pageants. How they exult in 
the idea that the King himself dare not enter the city 
without first knocking at the gate of Temple Bar, andask- 
i]ig permission of the Lord Mayor; for if he did, heaven 
and earth! there is no knowing what might be the eonse- 
fjMOuee. The man in armor who rides before the Lord 
Mayor, and is the city champion, has orders to cut down 
everybody that offends against the dignity of the city; and 
then thore is the little man with a velvet porringer on his 
head, who sits at the window of the state coach and liolds 
the city sword, as long as a pike-staff — Od's blood! if he 
once draws that sword. Majesty itself is not safe! 

Under the protection of this mighty potentate, therefore, 
the good people of Little Britain sleep in peace. Temple 
Bar is an effectual barrier against all internal foes; and as 
U) foreign invasion, the Lord Mayor has but to throw him- 
self into the Tower, call in the train-bands, and put the 
standing army of Beef-eaters under arms, and he may bid 
defiance to the world! 

Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own habits, 
and its own opinions, Little Britain has long flourished as 
a souiul heart to this great fungus metropolis. I have 
])leased myself with considering it as a chosen spot, where 
the principles of sturdy John Bullism were' garnered up, 
like seed-corn, to renew the national character, when it 
had run to waste and degeneracy. I have rejoiced also in 
th.e general spirit of harmony that prevailed throughout it; 
for though there might now and tlien be a few clashes of 
opinion between the adherents of the cheesemonger and 
the apothecary, and an occasional feud between the burial 
societies, yet these were but transient clouds, and soon 
passed away. The neighbors met with good-will, parted 
witli a shake of the hand, and never abused each other ex- 
cept behind their backs. 

I could give rare descriptions of snug junketing parties 
at which I have been present; where we played at All- 
Fours, Pope- Joan, Tom-come-tickle-me, and other choice 
old games: and where we sometimes had a good old English 
country dance, to the tune of Sir Roger de Coverly. Once 
a year also the neighbors would gather together, and go on 
a gypsy party to Epping Forest. It would have done any 
man's heart good to see the merriment that took place 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 226 

here, as we banqueted on the grass under the trees. How 
we made the woods ring with bursts of laughter at the 
songs of little Wagstaff and the merry undertaker! After 
dinner, too, the young folks would play at blindman's-buff 
and hide-and-seek; and it was amusing to see them tangled 
among the briers, and to hear a fine romping girl now and 
then squeak from among the bushes. The elder folks 
would gathei' round the cheesemonger and the apothecar}', 
to hear them talk politics; for they generally brought out 
a newspaper in their pockets, to pass away time in the 
country. They would now and then, to be sure, get a lit- 
tle warm in argument; but their disputes were always ad- 
justed by reference to a worthy old umbrella-maker in a 
double chin; who, never exactly comprehending the sub- 
ject, managed, somehow or other, to decide in favor of 
both parties. 

All empires, however, says some philosopher or historian, 
are doomed to changes and revolutions. Luxury and in- 
novation creep in; factions arise; and families now and 
then spring up, whose ambition and intrigues tlirow the 
Avhole S3^stem into confusion. Thus in latter days has the 
tranquillity of Little Britain been grievously disturbed, 
and its golden simplicity of manners threatened with total 
subversion, by the aspiring family of a retired butcher. 

The family of the Lambs had long been among the most 
thriving and popular in the neighborhood; the Miss Lambs 
were the belles of Little Britain, and everybody was pleased 
when old Lamb had made money enough to shut up shop, 
and put his name on a bi'ass plate on his door. In an evil 
hour, however, one of the Miss Lambs had the honor of be- 
ing a lady in attendance on the Lady Mayoress, at her 
grand annual ball, on which occasion she wore three tower- 
ing ostrich feathers on her head. The family never got 
over it; they were immediately smitten with a passion for 
high life; set up a one-horse carriage, put a bit of gold lace 
around the errand-boy's hat, and have been the talk and 
detestation of the whole neighborhood ever since. They 
i'ould no longer be induced to play at Pope-Joan or blind- 
man's-buff; they could endure no dances but quadrilles, 
which nobody ever hear of in Little Britain; and they took 
to reading novels, talked bad French, and played upon the 
piano. Their brother, too, who had been articled to an at- 



236 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

torney, set up for a dandy and a critic, characters hitherto 
nnknown in these parts; and he confounded the worthy 
folks exceedingly by talking about Kean, the Opera, and 
the Edinbro' Review. 

What was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand ball, to 
which they neglected to invite any of their old neighbors; 
but they had a great deal of genteel company from Theo- 
bald's Road, Red-lion iSquare, and other parts toward the 
Avest. There were several beaux of their brother's acquaint- 
ance from Gray's-Inn lane and Hatton Garden; and not less 
than three Aldermen's ladies with their daughters. This 
was not to be forgotten or forgiven. All Little Britain wdti 
in an uproar with the smacking of whips, the lashing of 
miserable horses, and the rattling and jingling of hackney- 
coaches. The gossips of the neighborhood might be seen 
popping their nieht-caps out at every window, watching 
the crazy vehicles rumble by; and there was a knot of_yiru- 
lent old cronies, that kept a lookout from a house just op- 
posite the retired butcher's, and scanned and criticized 
everyone that knocked at the door. 

The dance was a cause of almost open war, and the 
whole neighborhood declared they would have nothing 
more to say to the Lambs. It is true that Mrs. Lamb, 
when she had no engagements with her quality acquaint- 
ance, would give little humdrum tea junketings to some of 
her old cronies, ''quite," as she would say, "in a friendly 
way;" and it is equally true than her invitations were al- 
ways accepted^ in spite of all previous vows to the contrary. 
Nay, the good ladies would sit and be delighted with the 
music of the Miss Lambs, who would condescend to thrum 
an Irish melody for them on the piano; and they would 
listen with wonderful interest to Mrs. J^amb's ajiecdotes of 
Alderman Plunket's family of Portsoken ward, and the Miss 
Timberlakes, the rich heiresses of Crutched-Friars; buttlu-n 
they relieved their consciences, and avei'ted the reproaches 
of their confederates, by canvassing at the next gossipirig 
convocation everything that had passed, and pulling the 
Lambs and their rout all to pieces. 

The only one of the family that could not be made fash- 
ionable, was the retired butcher himself. Honest Lamb, in 
spite of the meekness of his name, was a rough, liearly old 
fellow, with the voice of a lion, a head of black hair like a 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 227 

shoe-brush, and a broad face mottled like his own beef. It 
was in vain that the daughters always spoke of him as the 
"old gentleman," addressed him as "papa," in tones of 
infinite softness, and endeavored to coax him into a dress- 
ing-gown and slippers, and other gentlemanly habits. Do 
what they might, there was no keeping down the butcher. 
His sturdy nature would break through all their glozings. 
He had a hearty vulgar good-humor, that was irrepressible. 
His very jokes made his sensitive daughters shudder; and 
he persisted in wearing his blue cotton coat of a morning, 
dining at two o'clock, and having a '' bit of sausage with 
his tea." 

He was doomed, however, to share the unpopularity of 
his family. He found his old comrades gradually growing 
cold and civil to him; no longer laughing at his Jokes; and 
now and then throwing out a fling at "some people," and 
a hint about "quality binding." This both nettled and 
perplexed the honest butcher; and his wife and daughters, 
with the consummate policy of the shrewder sex, taking ad- 
vantage of the circumstances, at length prevailed upon him 
to give up his afternoon pipe and tankard at Wagstaff's; to 
sit after dinner by himself, and take his pint of port — a 
liquor he detested — and nod in his chair, in solitary and 
dismal gentility. 

The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunting along the 
streets in French bonnets, with unknown beaux; and talk- 
ing and laughing so loud, that it distressed the nerves of 
every good lady within hearing. They even went so far as 
to attempt patronage, and actually induced a French danc- 
ing-master to set up in the neighborhood; but the worthy 
folks of Little Britain took fire at it, and did so persecute 
the poor Gaul, that he was fain to pack up fiddle and danc- 
ing-pumps, and decamp with such precipitation that he 
absolutely forgot to pay for his lodgings. 

I had nattered myself, at first, with the idea that all this 
fiery indignation on the part of the community was merely 
the overflowing of their zeal for good old English manners, 
and their horror of innovation; and I applauded the silent 
contempt they were so vociferous in expressing, for upstart 
pride, French fashions, and the Miss Lambs. But I grieve 
to say that I soon perceived the infection had taken hold; 
and that my neighbors, after condemning, were beginning 



238 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

to follow their example. I overheard my landlady impor- 
tuning her husband to let their daughters have one quarter 
at French and music, and that they might take a few les- 
sons in quadrille; I even saw, in the course of a few Sun- 
days, no less than five French bonnets, precisely like those 
of the Miss Lambs, parading about Little Britain. 

I still had my hopes that all this folly would gradually 
die away; that the Lambs might move out of the neighbor- 
hood; might die, or might run away with attorneys^ ap- 
prentices; and that quiet and simplicity might be again re- 
stored to the community. But unluckily a rival power 
arose. An opulent oilman died, and left a widow with a 
large jointure, and a family of bu.'ioni daughters. The 
young ladies had long been repining in secret at the parsi- 
mony of a prudent father, which kept down all their ele- 
gant aspirings. Their ambition being now no longer re- 
strained broke out into a blaze, and they openly tookL^the 
field against the family of the butcher. It is true that the 
Lambs, having had the first start, had naturally an advan- 
tage of them in the fashionable career. They could speak 
a little bad French, play the piano, dance quadrilles, and 
had formed high acquaintance, but the Trotters were not 
to be distanced. When the Lambs appeared with two feath- 
ers in their hats, the Miss Trotters mounted four, and of 
twice as fine colors. If the Lambs gave a dance, the Trot- 
ters were sure not to be behindhand; and though they might 
not boast c>f as good company, yet they had double the 
number, and were twice as merry. 

The whole community has at length divided itself ii to 
fashionable factions, under the banners of these two fami- 
lies. The old games of Pope-Joan and Tom-come-tickle- 
me are entirely discarded; there is no such thing as getting 
up an honest country-dance; and on my attempting to kiss 
a young lady under the mistletoe last Christmas, I was in- 
dignantly repulsed; the Miss Lambs have pronounced it 
'"shocking vulgar." Bitter rivalry has also broken out as 
to the most fashionable part of Little Britain; the Lambs 
standing up for the dignity of Cross-Keys Square, and the 
Trotters for the vicinity of St. Bartholomew's. 

Thus is this little territory torn by factions and internal 
dissensions, like the great empire whose name it bears; and 
what will be the result would puzzle the apothecary him- 



LITTLE BRllAIN 229 

self, with all his talent at prognostics, to determine; though 
I apprehend that it will terminate in the total downfall of 
genuine John Bullism. 

The immediate effects are extremely unpleasant to me. 
Being a single man, and, as I observed before, rather an 
idle good-for-nothing personage, I have been considered 
the only gentleman by profession in the place. I stand 
therefore in high favor with both parties, and have to hear 
all their cabinet councils and mutual backbitings. As T 
am too civil not to agree with the ladies on all occasions, 1 
have committed myself most horribly with both parties, by 
abusing their opponents. I might manage to reconcile 
this to my conscience, which is a truly accommodating one, 
but I cannot to my apprehensions — if the Lambs and 
Trotters ever come to a reconciliation, and compare notes, 
I am ruined! 

I have determined, therefore, to beat a retreat in time, 
and am actually looking out for some other nest in this 
great city, where old English manners are still kept up; 
where French is neither eaten, drank, danced, nor spoken; 
and where there are no fashionable families of retired trades- 
men. This found, I will, like a veteran rat, hasten away 
before I have an old house about my ears — bid a long, 
though a sorrowful adieu to my present abode — and leave 
the rival factions of the Lambs and the Trotters, to divide 
the distracted empire of Little Beitaik. 



230 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



STRATFOKD-ON-AVON. 

Thou soft flowing Avon, by thy silver stream 

Of tilings more than mortal sweet Sliakspeare would dream; 

The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, 

For hallowed the turf is which jiillowed his head. 

Uakrick. 

To a homeless mau, who has no spot on this wide world 
which he can truly call his own, there is a momentary feel- 
ing of something like independence and territorial conse- 
quence, when, after a weary day's travel, he kicks off his 
boots, thrusts his feet into sli})pers, and stretches hiniself 
before an inn fire. Let the world without go as it may; let 
kingdoms rise or fall, so long as lie has the wherewithal 
to pay his bill, he is, for the time being, the very monarch 
of all he surveys. The arm-chair is his throne, the poker 
his sceptre, and the little parlor, of some twelve feet square, 
his undisputed empire. It is a morsel of certainty, snatched 
from the midst of the nncertainties of life; it is a sunny 
moment gleaming out kindly on a cloudy day; and he who 
has advanced some way on the pilgrimage of existence, 
knows the importance of husbanding even morsels and mo- 
ments of enjoyment. " Shall I not take mine ease in mine 
inn?" thought I, as I gave the fire a stir, lolled back in my 
elbow-chair, and cast a complacent look about the little 
parlor of the Red Horse, at Stratford-on-Avon. 

The words of sweet Shakspeare were just passing through 
my mind as the clock struck midnight from the tower of the 
church in which he lies buried. '1 here was a gentle tap at 
the door, and a pretty chambermaid, putting in her smil- 
ing face, inquired, with a hesitating air, whether I had 
rung. I understood it as a modest hint that it was time to 
retire. My dream of absolute dominion was at an end; so 
abdicating my throne, like a prudent potentate, to avoid 
being deposed, and putting the Stratford Guide-Book under 
my arm, as a pillow companion, I went to bed and dreamt 
all night of Shakspeare, the Jubilee, and David Garrick. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 281 

The next moniiii<f wuh oiieof tliowo •{uickiiniii^ mornings 
which wo somctinies liavo in liarly sprin^j;; for it wiis about 
tho miihllc of March. 'I'lie ('hilKs of a lon;^' vvinUir liad siul- 
(lonly i^ivon way; thc^ noi-th wind had spent its last ij^nsp; 
and a niihl aircanic slculinji^ from tho west, hrcathing tho 
broatli of lifi^ into natiir(!, and wooin_<f ov(!ry l)U(i and llowtu' 
to hurst forth into fra<;raiK'(! and hoauty. 

I had c.onio to Sti'atford on a pocU,i('aI [)ilgriinag(!. My 
first visit was to tho liouso wlioro Shakspoan; was born, and 
wIior(\ acscording to tradition, ho was brou<j;ht up to iiis 
fathcir's craft of wool-conibinj,^ It is a snuiil, nioan-h)okin^ 
odilice of wood and phistor, a truo nc^stling-placo of gonius, 
whicli soonis to (h'llijj^ht in IiMtchin;.'' its olThprin;;- in by-cor- 
ners. Tho walls of its s(|ualid ohatnbors.aro covoroil with 
namos and inscriptions in every languaLr(^ by j)iltyrinis of 
all nations, ranks, and conditions, fi'oni tho prin(!o to tho 
peasant; and j)r('sont a striking instance of the spontanoouM 
and univ(!rsai honiag(! of mankind to tho groat ])oot of 
nature. 

Tim house is shown by a garrulous old lady, in a frosty 
rod face, lighted up by a cold blue anxious eye, and gar- 
nish(ul with artilicial locks of llaxon hair, curling froui 
und(M" }i.n (ix(5(H'<rnigly dirty (^ap. She was po(!uliarly assid- 
uous in exhibiting the relics with which this. Iik(i all other 
(Hilobratod shrines, abounds. Thor(* was the sha,ttor(!d stocik 
of tho very nuitcihiocsk with which Shaks}t(^ai'o shot the 
doer, on liis poaching exploits. Tlmro, too, was his toba.c(H)- 
])()x; whi(^h i)roves that ho was a rival smoker of Sir VValt(M" 
lialoigh; tho sword also with whicdi lu^ playc^l Hamlet; and 
the identical lantern with wlTu^h Kriar [jauroncio distioverod 
Itomoo and .lulicit at tho tomb! There was an ampl(5 sup- 
ply also of Shakspoaro's mullxirry-treo, which sticms to have 
;is oxtraoi'dinai'y pow<M's of scilf-multiplication as tho woo<l 
of the true (M'oss; of whi(!h there is enough extant to build 
a ship of tho liiu!. 

Tho most favorite ()bje(;t of curiosity, however, is Shak- 
spoaro's chair. It sl^mds in tho (iliimm^y-nook of a siruill 
gloomy chamber, just behind what was his father's shop. 
Hero he may many a time have sat when a boy, watching 
tho slowly-i'ovolving spit, with all the longing of an urchin; 
or, of an evening, listening to tho (^rones and gossips of 
Stratford, dealing forth churchyard tales and Togendary 



232 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

anecdotes of the troublesome tiines iu England. In this 
chair it is the custom of everyone who visits the house to 
sit: whether this be done with the hope of imbibing an}' of 
the inspiration of the bard, I am at a loss to say; I merely 
mention the fact; and mine hostess privately assured me 
that, though built of solid oak, such was the fervent zeal 
of devotees, that the chair had to be new-bottomed at least 
once in three years. It is worthy of notice also, in the 
history of this extraordinary chair, that it partakes some- 
thing of the volatile nature of the Santa Casa of Loretto, 
or the flying chair of the Arabian enchanter; for though 
sold some few years since to a northern princess, yet, 
strange to tell, it has found its way back again to the old 
chimney-corner . 

I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am very 
willing to be deceived, where the deceit is pleasant and 
costs nothing. I am therefore a ready believer in relics, 
legends, and local anecdotes of goblins and great men; and 
would advise all travellers who travel for their gratification 
to be the same. What is it to us whether these stories are 
true or false so long as we can persuade ourselves into the 
belief of them, and enjoy all the charm of the reality? 
There is nothing like resolute good-humored credulity in 
these matters; and on this occasion I went even so far as 
willingly to believe the claims of mine hostess to a lineal 
descent from the poet, when, unluckily for my faith, she 
put into my hands a play of her own composition, which 
set all belief in her consanguinity at defiance. 

From the birth-place of Shakspeare a few paces brought 
me to his grave. He lies buried in the chancel of the parish 
church, a large and venerable pile, mouldering with age, 
but richly ornamented. It stands on the banks of the 
Avon, on an embowered point, and separated by adjoining 
gardens from the suburbs of the town. Its situation is 
quiet and retired: the river runs murmuring at the foot of 
the churchyard, and the elms which grow iipon its banks 
droop their branches into its clear bosom. An avenue of 
limes, the boughs of which are curiously interlaced, so as 
to form in summer an arched way of foliage, leads up from 
the gate of the yard to the church porch. The graves are 
overgrown with grass; the gray tombstones, some of them 
nearly sunk into the earth, are half-covered with moss, 
wluoh hfts likewise tinted the reverend old building. Small 



8TnATF0RD-0N-AV()N. ^Z% 

birds have built their nests among the coruices and fissures 
of the walls, and keep up a continual flutter and chirping; 
and rooks are sailing and cawing about its lofty gray spire. 

In the course of my rambles I met with the grayheaded 
sexton, and accompanied him home to get the key of the 
church. He had lived in Stratford, man and boy, for 
eighty years, and seemed still to consider himself a vigor- 
ous man, with the trivial exception that he had nearly lost 
the use of his legs for a few years past. His dwelling was 
a cottage, looking out upon the Avon and its bordering 
meadows, and was a picture of that neatness, order and 
comfort, which pei'vade the humblest dwelling in this 
country. A low whitewashed room, with a stone floor 
carefully scrubbed, served for parlor, kitchen, and hall. 
Rows of pewter aiid earthen dishes glittered along the 
dresser. On an old oaken table, well rubbed and polished, 
lay the family bible and prayer-book, and the drawer con- 
tained the family library, composed of about half a score 
of well-thumbed volumes. An ancient clock, that impor- 
tant article of cottage furniture, ticked on i,iie opposite 
side of the room, with a bright warming-pan hanging on 
one side of it, and the old man's horn-handled Sunday cane 
on the other. 'Vhe. fire-place, as usual, was wide and deep 
enough to admit a gossip knot within its jambs. In one 
corner sat the old man's granddaughter sewing, a pretty 
blue-eyed girl, — and in the opposite corner was a superan- 
nuated crony, whom he addressed by the name of John 
Ange, and who, I found, had been his companion from 
childhood. They had played together in infancy; they 
had worked together in nuinhood; they were now tottering 
about and gossiping away the evening of life; and in a 
short time they will probably be buried together in the 
neighboring churchyard. It is not often that we see two 
streams of existence running thus evenly and tranquilly 
side by side; it is only in su.ch quiet ''bosom scenes" of 
life that they are to be met with. 

I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the 
bard from these ancient chroniclers; but they had nothing 
new to impart. The long interval, during which Shaks- 
peare's writings lay in comparative neglect, has spread its 
shadow over history; and it is his good or evil lot, that 
scarcely anything remains to his biographers but a scanty 
haudful of oouiectures. 



;S34 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

The sexton and his compauion had been employed as 
carpenters, on the preparations for the celebrated Stratford 
jubilee, and they remembered Garrick, the prime mover of 
the fete, who superintended the arrangements, and who, 
according to the sexton, was ''a short punch man, very 
lively and bustling," John Ange had assisted also in cut- 
ting down Shakspeare's mulberry-tree, of which he had a 
morsel in his pocket for sale, no doubt a sovereign quick- 
ener of literary conception. 

I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak 
very dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the 
Shakspeare house. John Ange shook his head when 1 
mentioned her valuable and inexhaustible collection of 
relics, particularly her remains of the mulberry-tree; and 
the old sexton even expressed a doubt as to Sliakspeare 
having been born in her house. I soon discovered that he 
looked upon her mansion with an evil eye, as a rival to~the 
poet's tomb; the latter having comparatively but few vis- 
itors. Thus it is that historians differ at the very outset, 
and mere pebbles make the stream of truth divei'ge into 
different channels, even at the fountain-head. 

We approached the church through the avenue of limes, 
and entered by a Gothic porch, highly ornamented with 
carved doors of massive oak. The interior is siiacious, and 
the architecture and embellishments superior to those of 
most country churches. There are several ancient monu- 
ments of nobility and gentry, over some of which hang 
funeral escutcheons, and banners dropping piecemeal from 
the walls. The tomb of Shakspeare is in the chancel. 
The place is solemn and sepulchral. Tall elms wave be- 
fore the pointed windows, and the Avon, which runs at a 
short distance from the walls, keeps up a low perpetual 
murmur. A flat stone marks the spot where the bard is 
buried. There are four lines inscribed on it, said to have 
been written by himself, and M'hicli have in them some- 
thing extremely awful. If they are indeed his own, they 
show that solicitude about the quiet of the grave which 
seems natural to fine sensibilities and thoughtful minds: 

Good friend, for Jesus' sake, forbeare 
To dig the dust inclosed here. 
Blessed be he that spares these stones. 
And curst be he that moves my bones. 



STRATFOED-ON-AVON. 035 

Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of 
Shakspeare, put up shortly after his death, and considered 
as a resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and serene, with 
a finely arched forehead; and I thought I could read in it 
clear indications of that cheerful, social disposition, by 
which lie was as much characterized among his contem- 
poraries as by the vastness of his genius. The inscription 
mentions his age at the time of his decease — fifty-three 
years; an untimely death for the world: for what fruit might 
not have been expected from the golden autumn of such a 
mind, sheltered as it was from the stormy vicissitudes of life, 
and flourishing in the sunshine of popular and royal favor! 

The inscription on the tombstone has not been without 
its effect. It has prevented the removal of his remains 
froni the bosom 01 his native place to Westminster Abbey, 
which was at one time contemplated, A few years since 
also, as some laborers were digging to make an adjoining 
vault, the earth caved in, so as to leave a vacant space 
almost like an arch, through which one might have 
reached into his grave. No one, however, presumed to 
meddle with the renuiins so awfully guarded by a maledic- 
tion; and lest any of the idle or the curious, or any collector 
of relics, should be tempted to commit depredations, the 
old sexton ke})t watch over the place for two days, until the 
vault was finished, and the aperture closed again. He told 
me that he had made bold to look in at the hole, but could 
see neither coffin nor bones; nothing but dust. It was 
something, I thought, to have seen the dust of Shakspeare. 

Next to this gr^,ve are those of his wife, his favorite 
(laughter Mrs. Hall, and others of his family. On a tomb 
close by, also, is a full-length effigy of his old friend John 
Combe, of usurious memory; on whom he is said to have 
written a ludicrous epitaph. There are other monuments 
around, but the mind refuses to dwell on anything that is 
not connected with Shakspeare. His idea pervades the 
place — the whole pile seems but as his mausoleum. The 
feelings, no longer checked and thwarted by doubt, here 
indulge in perfect confidence; other traces of him may be 
false or dubious, but here is palpable evidence and absolute 
certainty. As I trod the sounding pavement, there was 
something intense and thrilling in the idea, that, in very 
truth, the remains of Shakspeare were mouldering beneath 



236 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

my feet. It was a long time before I could prevail upon 
myself to leave the place; and as I passed through the 
churchyard, I plucked a branch from one of the yew-trees, 
the only relic that I have brought from Stratford. 

I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's devo- 
tion, biit I had a desire to see the old family seat of the 
Lucys at Charlecot, and to ramble through the park where 
Shakspeare, in company with some of the roisterers of 
Stratford, committed his youthful offence of deer-stealing. 
In this hairbrained exploit we are told that he was taken 
prisoner, and carried to the keeper's lodge, where he 
remained all night in doleful captivity. When brought 
into the presence of Sir Thomas Lucy, his treatment must 
have been galling and humiliating; for it so wrought upon 
his spirit as to produce a rough pasquinade, which was 
affixed to the park gate at Charlecot.* 

This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the Knight so 
incensed him, that he applied to a lawyer at Warwick to 
put the severity of the laws in force against the rhyming 
deer-stalker. Shakspeare did not wait to brave the united 
puissance of a Knight of the Shire and a country attorney. 
He forthwith abandoned the pleasant banks of the Avon 
and his paternal trade; wandered away to London; became 
a hanger-on to the theatres; then an actor; and, finally, 
wrote for the stage; and thus, through the persecution of 
Sir Thomas Lucy, Stratford lost an indifferent wool- 
comber, and the world gained an immortal poet. lie re- 
tained, however, for a long time, a sense of the harsh 
treatment of the Lord of Charlecot, and revenged himself 
in his writings; but in the sportive way of a good-natured 
mind. Sir Thomas is said to be the original of Justice 
Shallow, and the satire is slyly fixed upon him by the 
Justice's armorial bearings, which, like those of the Knight, 
had white luces f in the quarterings. 

* The following is the only stanza extant of this lampoon: 
A parliament member, a justice of peace, 
At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse. 
If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalls It, 
Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. 

He thinks himself great; 

Yet an asse in his state. 
We allow by his ears with but asses to mate. 
If Lucy is lowsle,a8 some volke miscalle It, 
Then sing lowsie Lucy, whatever befall it. 

t The luoe Is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon, about Charlecot. 



HTRA TFORD - ON- A VON. 237 

VariouB attempts hnvo been made by his biographers to 
soften and expljiin nway this early trans<]^rosRion of the 
poet; but I look upon it an one of those thougiitless ex- 
ph)its natural to his situation and turn of mind. Shak- 
spcare, when yountj;, luid doubtless all the wildnesfl ajid 
itre^j^ularity of an ardcuit, undisciplined, aud undirected 
jjenius. '^I'he poc^ticr tcinipcrainrjil, luis luiturally somethinji; 
in it of the va^ibond. When hd't to itself, it runs loosely 
and wildly, and delij^lits in everythin*,^ eccentric; and licen- 
tious. It is often a turn-up of a die, in the gandjlinjj 
freaks of fate, whether a natural jLifenius shaJI turn out a 
<^reat^ ro<;^ue or a ^I'eat [)()et; and had not Shakspearc'H 
mind fortunat,ely tiikiui a lit((rary bias, lui rui<fht have as 
darin^dy transcended all civil, as he has all drainatic laws. 

1 have little doubt, that in early life, when running, like 
ail unbroken colt, about the neighborhood of Stratford, ho 
was to bo found in th(! com|)any of all kinds of odd and 
.uiomalous characters; that he associated with all the mad- 
<!!i})s of the })la(!e, and was oiu) of thos(! unhuiky urchins, 
at nuMition of whom old men shake tluiir heads, and pre- 
dict that they will one day come to the gallows. To liim 
(he [joiiching in Sir Thomas l^uc^y's park was doubtless like 
a foniy to a S(H)ttish Kuight, and striuik his eag(U', and as 
yet untamed, imagination, as sonn^thing (hOightfully ad- 
ventui'ous.* 

*A proof ol" Sliaksimarc's randoiii liahltn and aKSoolatc.s In UIh yonthful 
flays may bo fcmnd In a tradltiuMarv atidcdoto, pW^krd up at Strat,ff)rd by tho 
eldor Ireland, and in<'nt,i<iiii'(l In IiIk '' I'lct-iir(!H(|iii' Vh^wH on t.li<i Avon." 

About, Hdvcn niilrs li'iini Slriiirurd Hi'sIIm^ uiiryty linii^mMrki't town of Bod- 
ford, fanions for Its ahv 'I'vvo MiKMnlii-s of the villairo ytioniain-y nHcd to mod, 
undnrtho apprllatlonof Uu^ Undtoi-d l,r)|)iTs, and tochallf-riKi- Mm lovrrsof goofi 
a.lo of tho noiijhhorinif vIlIaff'iK to a, <(int,i nt nf drinkhiLr. Ainonir othciH, tlin 
ricopio f)f Straifurd vvuro CMJlnd on! to f)nivoMii', Hfrt^nKth of thrjr hoadR; and 
In tbonumlM^rof UiocbanipionK was SliakKiMiaro, who. In snitcof thi- provtTb that 
"tbr'y who drink bocr will think bcrr," wan an truo to his alo as Kalstaff to hia 
sack. Tho chivalry of Stratford was s(a.(7K''rod at tho first onsot,, and soundod 
a, r(^troat while thoy had lo^s torarrythfim off tho (|n|d. Thoy had scarorly 
marched a milo, whon, (bob- lof^s railing Ibom, thoy wore forcrd to lie dovvii 
undor a crab-trfo, wlioro tli<^y passod tho nitfbt, li. is si ill sliindbift, and gonn 
by tho namo of Shakspearo's tn^i. 

In (ho morning his conipanions awaked tho hard, and propoood rcturnlntc t^ 
Dodford, hut ho dof.linod, saying ho had had ouonf,'b, havin)? drunk with 

ripinfr I'obwort.h, DoTicinn Marston, 
Uanntod FUlbrr)', IIunKry (irafton, 
UrudRing ICxhall, Papist WickHford. 
BcKKfii'ly Broom, and drnnknn Bodford. 

" The villages horo albidod to," says Iroland, "still boar the epithets thun 
tdvoii thrm: th(\ pooi)lo of Pcbwurth arc still farncd for their skill on tho pipn 
and tabor; llilll>urr>uKh is now calloil Haunlnd HiliborouKb; aud Urafton 1« fa- 
mous for tho poverty of Its soil. 



238 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding park 
still remain in the possession of the Lucy family, and are 
peculiarly interesting from being connected with this 
whimsical but eventful circumstance in the scanty history 
of the bard. As the house stood at little more than throe 
miles' distance from Stratford, I resolved to pay it a pedes- 
trian visit, that I might stroll leisurely through some of 
those scenes from which 8hakspeare must have derived his 
earliest ideas of rural imagery. 

The country was yet naked and leailess; but English 
scenery is always verdant, and the sudden change in the 
temperature of the weather was surprising in its quicken- 
ing effects upon the landscape. It was inspiring and ani- 
mating to witness this first awakening of spring; to feel its 
warm breath stealing over the senses; to see the moist, 
mellow earth beginning to put forth the green sprout and 
the tender blade; and the trees and shrubs, in their reviv- 
ing tints and bursting buds, giving the promise of return- 
ing foliage and flower. The cold snow-dro^i, that little 
borderer on the skirts of winter, was to be seen with its 
chaste wliite blossoms in the small gardens before the cot- 
tages. The bleating of the new-dropt lambs was faintly 
heard from the fields. The sparrow twittered about the 
thatched eaves and budding hedges; the robin threw a live- 
lier note into his late querulous wintry strain; and the lark, 
springing up from the reeking bosom of the meadow, 
towered away into the bright fleecy cloud, pouring forth 
torrents of melody. As I watched the little songster, 
mounting up higher and liigher, until his body was a mere 
speck on the white bosom of the cloud, M'hile the ear was 
still filled with his music, it called to mind Shakspeare's 
exquisite little song in Cymbeline: 

Hark! hark! the lark at heav'n's gate sings, 

And Phoebus "gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs, 

On chaliced flowers that lies. 

And winking mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes; 
With every thing that pretty bin, 

My lady sweet, arise! 

Indeed, the whole country about here is poetic ground: 
everything is associated with the idea of Shakspeare. Every 



8TRATF0RD-0N-AV0N. 230 

old cottage that I saw, I fancied into some resort of his 
boyhood, where he had acquired his intimate knowledge of 
rustic life and maimers, and heard those legendary tales 
and wild superstitions which lie has woven lilke witchcraft 
into his dramas, l^'or in his time, we are told, it was a 
popular amusement in winter evenings " to sit round the 
fire, and tell merry tales of errant knights, queens, lovers, 
lords, ladies, giants, dwarfs, thieves, cheaters, witches, fair« 
ies, goblins, and friars." * 

My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon, 
which made a variety of the most fanciful doublings and 
windings through a wide and fertile valley; sometimes glit- 
tering from among willows, which fringed its borders; 
sometimes disaj>pearing among groves, or beneath green 
banks; and sometimes rambling out into full view, and 
making an azure sweep round a slope of meadow land. 
'Iliis beautiful bosom of country is called the Vale of the 
Red Horse. A distant line of undulating blue hills seems 
to bo its boundary, whiL-it all the soft intervening landscape 
lies in a manner enchained in the silver links of the Avon. 

After pursuing the I'oad for about three miles, 1 turned 
otf into a foot-path, which led along the borders of fields 
and under hedge-rows to a private gate of the park; there 
was a stile, however, for the benefit uf the pedestrian; there 
being a public right of way through tiie grounds. I delight 
in these hospitable estates, in wliich everyone has a kind of 
property — at least as far as the foot-path is concerned. It 
in some measure reconciles a ])Oor mati to his lot, and what 
is more, to the better lot of his neighbor, thus to have 
parks and pleasure-grounds thrown open for his recreation, 
lie breathes the pure air as freely, and lolls as luxuriously 
under the shade, as the lord of the soil; and if he has not 
the privilege of calling all that he sees his own, he has not. 
at the same time, the trouble of paying for it, and keeping 
it in order, 

I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and 
elms, whose vast size bespoke the growth of centuries. Tho 

♦Scot, in his "Discoverie of Witchrraft," enumerates a host of these flrfv 
«ide fancies. "And they have so fraid H8 with bull-beKcers, spirits, witches, 
urchins, elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, kit with the can sticke, 
trttons, centaurs, dwarfes, Riantes. imps, oalcars, conjurors, nymphes. change- 
iiugs, incubus, KoVjiu goc.'il fellow, the spni'no, the mare, the man m the oke, 
the hellwaine, the fier drake, the puckle, Tom Thombe, hobKobUns, Tom 
Tumbler, boneless, and auch other Dugs, that we were afraid of our ow» 
sbadowes." 



340 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

wind sounded solemnly among their branches, and the 
rooks cawed from their hereditary nests in the tree tcps. 
The eye ranged through a long lessening vista, with noth- 
ing to interrupt the view but a distant statue, and a vagrant 
deer stalking like a shadow across the opening. 

There is something about tliese stately old avenues that 
has the effect of Gothic architecture, not merely from the 
p'etended similarity of form, but from their bearing the 
evidence of long duration, and of having had their origin 
in a period of time with which we associate ideas of roman- 
tic grandeur. They betoken also the long-settled dignity, 
and proudly concentrated independence of an ancient 
family; and I have heard a worthy but aristocratic old 
friend observe, when speaking of the sumptuous palaces of 
modern gentry, that "money could do much with stone 
and mortar, but, thank Heaven, there was no such^ thing 
as suddenly building up an avenue of oaks." 

It was from wandering in early life among this rich 
scenery, and about the romantic solitudes of the adjoining 
park of Fullbroke, which then formed a part of the Lucy 
estate, that some of Shakspeare's commentators have sup- 
posed he derived his noble forest meditations of Jacques, 
and the enchanting woodland pictures in '*As You Like It." 
It is in lonely wanderings tl] rough such scenes, that the 
mind drinks deep but quiet draughts of inspiration, and 
becomes intensely sensible of the beauty and majesty of 
nature. The imagination kindles into reverie and rapture; 
vague but exquisite images and ideas keep breaking upon 
it; and we revel in a mute and almost incommunicable 
luxury of thought. It was in some such mood, and per- 
haps under one of those very trees before me, which threw 
their broad shades over the grassy banks and quivering 
waters of the Avon, that the poet's fancy may have sallied 
forth into that little song which breathes the very soul of a 
rural voluptuary: 

Under the green-wood tree, 

Who loves to lie with me, 

And tune his merry throat 

Unto the sweet bird's note, 

C^ome hither, come hither, come hither, 

Here shall lie see 

No enemy 

But winter and rough weather. 



STRA TFORD-ON-A VON, 241 

I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large build- 
ing ol" brick, with stone quoins, and is in the Gothic style 
of Queen Ellizabeth's day, having been built in the first year 
of her reign. The exterior I'emains very nearly in its 
original state, and may bo considered a fair specimen of the 
residence of a wealtliy country gentleman of those days. 
A great gateway opens from the park into a kind of court- 
yard in front of the house, ornamented with a grass-plot, 
shrubs, and flower-beds. The gateway is in imitation of 
the ancient barbican; being a kind of outpost, and flanked 
by towers; though evidently for mere ornament, instead of 
defence. The front of the house is completely in the old 
rityle; with stone shafted casements, a great bow-window of 
heavy stone work, and a portal with armorial bearings over 
it, carved in stone. At each corner of the building is an 
octagon tower, surmounted by a gilt ball and weathercock. 

The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a bend 
just at the foot of a gently sloping bank, which sweeps 
down from the rear of tiie house. Large herds of deer were 
feeding or reposing upon its borders; and swans were sail- 
ing majestically upon its bosom. As I contemplated the 
venerable old mansion, 1 called to mind Falstaif's encomium 
on Justice Shallow's abode, and the affected indifference 
and real vanity of the latter: 

"Falstaff. You Lave here a goodly dwelling and a rich. 
** Shallow. Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all. Sir 
John: — marry, good air." 

Whatever may have been the joviality of the old mansion 
in the days of Shakspeare, it had now an air of stillness 
and solitude. The great iron gateway that opened into the 
court-yard was locked; there was no show of servants 
bustling about the place; the deer gazed quietly at me as I 
passed, being no longer harried by the moss-troopers of 
Stiatford. The only sign of domestic life that I met with 
was a white cat, stealing with wary look and stealthy pace 
towards the stables, as if on some nefarious exjjedition. I 
must not omit to mention the carcass of a scoundrel crow 
which I saw suspended against the barn wall, as it shows 
that the Lucys still inherit that lordly abhorrence of 
poachers, and maintain that rigorous exercise of territorial 



242 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

power which was so strenuously manifested in the case of 
the bard. 

After prowling about for some time, I at length found 
my way to a lateral portal, which was the every-day 
entrance to the mansion. I was courteously received by a 
worthy old housekeeper, who, with the civility and com- 
municativeness of her order, showed me the interior of the 
house. The greater part has undergone alterations, and 
been adapted to modern tastes and modes of living: there 
is a fine old oaken staircase; and the great hall, that noble 
feature in an ancient manor-house, still retains much of the 
appearance it must have had in the days of Shakspeare. 
The ceiling is arched and lofty; and at one end is a gallery, 
in which stands an organ. The weapons and trophies of 
the chase, which formerly adorned the hall of a country 
gentleman, have made way for family portraits. There is 
a wide hospitable fire-place, calculated for an ample old- 
fashioned wood fire, formerly the rallying place of winter 
festivity. On the opposite side of the hall is the huge 
Gothic bow-window, with stone shafts, which looks out 
upon the court-yard. Here are emblazoned in stained glass 
the armorial bearings of the Lucy family for many genera- 
tions, some being dated in 1558. I was delighted to 
observe in the quarterings the three Mliiie luces by which 
the character of Sir Thomas was first identified with that 
of Justice Shallow. They are mentioned m the first scene 
of the Merry Wives of Windsor, where the Justice is in a 
rage with Falstaff for having " beaten his men, killed his 
deer, and broken into his lodge.'' The poet had no doubt 
the offences of himself and his comrades in mind at the 
time, and we may suppose the family pride and vindictive 
threats of the puissant Shallow to be a caricature of the 
pompous indignation of Sir Thomas. 

" ShalloiB. Sir Hugh, persuade me not: I will make a Star 
Chamber matter of it; if he were twenty Sir John Falstaffs, he sliall 
not abuse Robert Shallow, Esq. 

" Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice, peace, and coram.. 

" Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum. 

'"Slender. Ay, &nA ratalorum too, and a gentleman born, mester 
parson; who writes himself Armigero in any bill, warrant, quittance, 
or obligation, Armigero. 

"Shallow. Ay, tiiat 1 do; and have done any time these three 
hundred years. 



8TBA TFORD-ON-A VOK 243 

" fllcndrr. All his successors gone before him have done 't, and 
nil liis nni',estors tliat come after him may; they may give the dozen 
in/tU<: liu'.cs in tlicir coat. 

" ShalloiB. The council shall hear it; it is a riot. 

" Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot; there is no fear 
of Dot in a riot; tho? council, liear you, shall desire to hear the fear 
of Got, and not to hear a riot; take your vizaments in that. 

"Shallow. Ha! o' my life, if I were young a^ain, the sword 
should end it!" 

Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait by 
Sir Peter Lely of one of tiie Lucy family, a great beauty of 
the time of Charles the Second: the old housekeeper shook 
her head as she pointed to the picture, and informed me 
that this lady had been sadly addicted to cards, and had 
uainblcd away a great portion of the family estate, among 
which was that part of the park where Shakspcarc and his 
lomrades had killed the deer. The lands thus lost have 
not been entirely regained by the family, even at the 
)iresent day. It is but justice to this recreant dame to con- 
fess that she had a surpassingly fine hand and arm. 

'['he picture which most attracted my attention was a 
great painting over the iire-place, containing likenesses of 
Sir Thomas Lucy and his family, who inhabited the hall in 
the latter part of Shakspeare's lifetime. I at first thought 
it was the vindictive knight himself, but the housekeeper 
assured me that it was his son; the only likeness extant of 
the former being an effigy upon his tomb in the church of 
the neighboring hamlet of Charlecot. The picture gives a 
lively idea of the costume and manners of the time. Sir 
Thomas is dressed in ruff and doublet; white shoes with 
roses in them; and has a peaked yellow, or, as Master 
Slender would say, *'a cane-colored beard." His lady is 
seated on the opposite side of the picture in wide ruff and 
long stomacher, and the children have a most venerable 
stiffness and formality of dress. Mounds and spaniels are 
mingled in the family group; a hawk is seated on his perch 
in the foreground, and one of the children holds a bow; — 
all intimating the knight's skill in hunting, hawking, and 
archery — so indispensable to an accomplished gentleman in 
those days.* 

♦Bishop Karlo, speaking of the country irentleman of his time, observes, 
"His liiuis(:Uc(i)iiit,' is seen iiin(;h in the (lifr(;)'<'tit families of fioKs, and scrvinK- 
men attendant on their kennels; and the deepness of their throats Is the depth 
of his discourse. A hawk he esteems the true burden of nobility, and Is ox- 



244 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

I regvettcd to find that the ancient furniture of the hall 
liad disappeared; for I had hoped to meet with tlie stately 
elbow-chair of carved oak, in which the country 'Squire of 
former days was wont to sway the sceptre of empire over 
his rural domains; and in wliioli might be presumed the 
redoubted Sir Thouias sat enthroned in awful state, when 
the recreant Shakspeare was brought before him. As I like 
to deck out pictures for my entertainment, I pleased myself 
with the idea that this very hall had been the scene of the 
unlucky bard's examiiuition on the nu>ruing after his cap- 
tivity in the lodge. I fancied to myself the rural potentate, 
surrounded by his body-guard of butler, pages, and the 
blue-coated serving-men with their badges; while the luck- 
less culprit was brought in, forlorn and chapfallen, in the 
custody of game-keepers, huntsmen, and whippers-in, and 
followed by a rabble rout of country clowns. I fancied 
bright faces of curious housemaids peeping from the half- 
opened doors; while from the gallery the fair daughters of 
the Knight leaned gracefully forward, eying the youthful 
prisoner with that pity " that dwells in womanhood." — 
Who would have thought that this poor varlet, thus tremb- 
ling before the brief authority of a country 'Squire, and the 
sport of rustic boors, was soon to become tlie delight of 
princes; the tbeme of all tongues and ages; the dictator to 
the human mind; and was to confer immortality on his 
oppressor by a caricature and a lampoon! 

I was now invited by the butler to walk into the garden, 
and T felt inclined to visit the orchard and arbor Avhere the 
Justice treated Sir John Falstaff and Cousin Silence " to a 
last year's pippen of his own grafting, with a dish of carra- 
ways;" but I had already spent so much of the day in my 
rauibling, that I was obliged to give up any further inves- 
tigations. When about to take my leave I was gratified by 
the civil entreaties of the honsekeeper and butler, that I 
would take some refreshment — an instance of good old hos- 
pitality, which I grieve to say we castle-hunters seldom 
meet with in modern days. I make no doubt it is a virtue 

ceodiriKly ambitious to seem delighted with the sport, and have his fist tfloved 
with josses. " And Gilpin, in his description of a Mr. Hastings, remarks, " He 
kept all sorts of hounds that run, buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger; and had 
hawks of all kinds, both long and short winged. His great hall WJis commonly 
Htrewi'd with marrow-bones, and full of hawk-perobes, hounds, spaniels, and 
terriers. On a broad hearth, paved with brick, lay some of the choicest ter^ 
riers. hounds and spaniels." 



HTItA TFOIUJ-ON-A VON. 245 

which the present reproHentaiives of the Lucys inherits 
from his ancestorK; for Shakspeare, even in his caricature, 
maices Justice Shallow importunate in this respect, as wit- 
ness his pressing instances to Falstaff: 

" By (M)ck and pye, Sir, you shall not away to-nif^ht * * *. I will 
not fiXCUHO you; you nhall not be oxriiH*Hi; «^xcuKeH Khali not be ad- 
mittwi; thf'.rfi \h noexmiHO wliall Horvo; you Hliall not V)e wxcuwed * * *'. 
Somo pigeons, Davy; a coupleof hhort-legged hen.s; a joint of mutton; 
and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell 'William Cook.'" 

I now bade a rchictant farewell to the old hall. My mind 
had become so completely possessed by the imaginary scenes 
and ciiaracters connected with it, that I seemed to be act- 
ually living among them. Everything brought them as it 
were before my eyes; and as the door of the dining-room 
opened, J almost expected to hear the feeble voice of Mas- 
ter Silence quavering forth his favorite ditty: 

" 'Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all. 
And welcome merry Shrove-tide!" 

On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect on the 
singular gift of my poet; to be able thus to spread the magic 
of his mind over the very face of nature; to give to things 
and places a charm and character not their own, and to 
turn this "working-day world " into a perfect fairy land. 
He is indeed the true enchantei-, whose spell operates, not 
upon the senses, but upon the imagination and the heart. 
iJnder the wizard influence of Shakspeare I had been walk- 
ing all day in complete delusion. I had surveyed the land- 
scape through the i)rism of poetry, which tinged every 
object with the hues of the rainbow. I had been surrounded 
with fancied beings; with mere airy nothings, conjured up 
by poetic power; yet which, to me, had all the charm of 
reality. I had heard Jacques soliloquize beneath his oak; 
had beheld the fair Rosalind and her companion adventur- 
ing through the woodlands; and, above all, had been once 
more present in spirit with fat -Jack Fiilstalf, and his con- 
temporaries, from the august Justice Shallow down to the 
gentle Master Slender, and the sweet Anne Page. Ten 
thousand honors and blessings on the bard who has thus 
gilded the dull realities of life with innocent illusions; who 
has spread exquisite and unbought pleasures in my check- 



246 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ered path, and beguiled my spirit in many a lon«ly hour, 
with all the cordial and cheerful sympathies of social life! 

As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, 1 
paused to contemplate the distant church in which the poet 
lies buried, and could not but exult in the malediction 
which has kept his ashes undisturbed in its quiet and hal- 
lowed vaults. What honor could his name have derived 
from being mingled in dusty companionship with the eqi- 
taphs and escutcheons and venal eulogiums of a titled mul- 
titude? What would a crowded corner in Westminster 
Abbey have been, compared with this reverend pile, which 
seems to stand in beautiful loneliness as his sole mauso- 
leum! The solicitude about the grave may be but the off- 
spring of an overwrought sensibility; but human nature is 
made up of foibles and prejudices; and its best and tender- 
est affections are mingled with these factitious feelings. 
He who has sought renown about the world, and has reaped 
a full harvest of worldly favor, will find, after all, that 
there is no love, no admiration, no applause, so sweet to 
the soul as that which springs up in his native place. It is 
there that he seeks to be gathered in peace and honor, 
among his kindred and his early friends. And when the 
weary heart and failing head begin to warn him that the 
evening of life is drawing on, he turns as fondly as does 
the infant to the motlier's arms, to sink to sleep in the 
bosom of the scene of his childhood. 

How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful 
bard, when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful 
world, he cast back a heavy look upon his paternal home, 
could he have foreseen that, before many years, he should 
return to it covered with renown; that his name should be- 
come the boast and glory of his native place; that his 
ashes should be religiously guarded as its most precious 
treasure; and that its lessening spire, on whicii his eyes 
were fixed in tearful contemplation, should one day become 
the beacon, towering amidst the gentle landscape, to guide 
the literary pilgrim of every nation to his tomb! 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. ^47 



TEAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 

" I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan's cabin nun- 
grj, and he gave him not to eat; if ever he came cold and naked and 
he clothed him not."— Speech of an Indian, Chief. 

Theke is something in the character and habits of the 
North American savage, taken in connection with the scen- 
ery over which he is accustomed to range, its vast lakes 
boundless forests, majestic rivers, and trackless plains, that 
IS, to my nund, wonderfully striking and sublime. He is 
formed for the wilderness, as the Arab is for the desert. 
His nature is stern, simple, and enduring; fitted to grapple 
with difiiculties, and to support privations. There seems 
but little soil in his heart for the growth of the kindly vir- 
tues; and yet, if we would but take the trouble to penetrate 
through that proud stoicism and habitual taciturnity, 
which lock up his character from casual observation, we 
should find him linked to his fellow man of civilized life 
by more of those sympathies and affections than are usu- 
ally ascribed to him. 

It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigines of Amer- 
ica, in the early periods of colonization, to be doubly wronged 
by the white men. Tliey have been dispossessed of their 
hereditary possessions, by mercenary and frequently wanton 
warfare; and their characters liave been traduced by bigoted 
and interested writers. The colonist has often treated them 
like beasts of the forest; and the author has endeavored to 
justify him in his outrages. The former found it easier to 
exterminate than to civilize— the latter to vilify than to dis- 
criminate. The appellations of savage and pagan were 
deemed sufTicient to sanction the hostilities of both; and 
thus the poor wanderers of the forest were persecuted and 
defamed, not because they were guilty, but because they 
were ignorant. 

The riglits of the savage have seldom been properly ap- 
preciated or respected by the white man. In peace he has 
too often been the dupe of artful traffic; in war, he hay 



248 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

been regarded as a ferocious animal, whoso life or death M-as 
a question of mere preeiiution and oonvonionce. Man is 
cruelly wasteful of lite when his own safely is endangered, 
and ho is sholtorod by impunity: and little mercy is to be 
expected from him when ho fools the sting of the reptile, 
ami is conscious of the power to destroy. 

The sjime prejudices which were indulged thus early, ex- 
ist in common circulation at the present day. Certain 
learned societies have, it is true, with laudable diligence, 
vMuioavorod to invostigiite and record the real characters 
and manners of the Iiulian tribes; tlio .Vmerican govorn- 
mont, too. has wisely and humanely exerted itself to iiu'ul- 
cate a friendly and forbearing spirit towards them, 
and to protect them from fraud and injustice.* The 
current opinion of the Indian character, however, is too 
apt to bo formed from the miserable hordes whichlrnfest 
the frontiers, aiul hang on to the skirts of the settlements. 
These are too commonly composed of degenerate beings, cor- 
rupted and enfeebled by the vices of society, without being 
benefited by its civilization. TMiat proud indopendonoo, 
which formed the main pillar of savage virtue, has been 
shaken down, and the whole moral fabric lies in ruins. Their 
spirits are humiliated and debased by a sense of in- 
feriority, and their native courage cowed and dau Tired by 
the superior knowledge and power of their enlightened 
neighbors. Society has advanced ujion them like one of 
those withering airs that will sometimes breathe desolation 
over a whole region of fertility. It has enervated their 
strength, multiplied their diseases, and superinduced upon 
their original barbarity the low vices of artificial life. It 
has given them a thousand suporfiuous wants, whilst it has 
diminished their means of mere existence. It has driven 
before it the animals of the chase, who fiy from the sound 
of the axe and the smoke of the settlement, and seek refuge 
in the depths of remoter forests and yet untrodden wilds. 
Thus do we too often find the Indians on our frontiers to bo 
mere wrecks and remnants of once powerful tribes, who 

*Tbe American KovorniiUMit has bocii iiidcfatisrahlo in its oxt>rtli>iis to iiit^li- 
DHite the situation of the Indians, and to" introdui'o anion^' tltoni tlu> arts of 
civillziition, and civil and religious Ixiiowlcdirc. To protci't llicni Ironi \\w 
frauds of the white traders, no purchase of (and froni tlieni by ln<livi(luals is 
pcrniittod; nor is any person allowed to receivt> lands from them as a present, 
without the express sunotiou of (rovennnent. Tiiese precautions are strictly 
enforced. 



'fHAITH OF INDIAN (HIAUAdTKli. 249 

have lingcr(!tl in tin! vicinil-y of l,}i<; HcLl.lciJicniH, und bunk 
into prccjtriouH und vuf^ahond <;xiHtonc<;. l*ovcrty, repin- 
ing und liop(;i(;HH j>ovorl_y, a, cunk<!r of tin; mind unknown 
in Hav}i;((! Iif(!, f;orrod«;H Uicir Hpiritu and hli^^filH evciy froo 
and \\u\)\i: quality of tli(;ir naf-uroH. TJioy \n-r.u\\u: (Jrunken, 
indoloni,, fr;(!hl<;, tliirjviHl), and puHillanirnouH. 'I'lu;y loit,(!r 
like vagranU afjout Ui<; HfitLhirncntH among HpJviiouH dw<;ll- 
irigH, n;|)l(!U; wil-li f;lahoraU; comforlH, wliifdj only rfMKlcr 
t}i(!rn HonHihU; of \\n; corrifjjirat.ivf; wrf-f,r;h<;dn(;rK of \\u-\y ow/i 
<;on(Jition. Luxury Kjn*(;adK iU ample hojird f^rfor*; ilif;ir 
«)y(!H; but th(!y ai'o (;x<;lu(J<;d fn^n the hanquot. Plenty 
revelH usm the fiehJn; hut they are Htarving in the. niidnt of 
its aburuJancr;: t)ie vvfiole wilderneHH huH hloBHomed into a 
garden; hut they feel aH reptilew that infewt it. 

How dilferent wttH t.heir Htate, wliile yet the undisputed 
lordH of tlie, Hoill Their wants were few, and the means of 
gratification within tluur n;aeli. 'I'hrjy saw everyone vty\\\\i\ 
theri Kharing tlu; same lot, enduring the same hardHhips, 
feeding on the same alimentH, arrayerj in the; same rude 
garments. No roof tli(;n I'OHe, hut was oj)<;n to tfie home- 
hjBS stranger; no smoke euiled among the trees, hut he was 
welcome to sit down hy its fire and join the hunter in liin 
repast. " For," says an old historian of New Kngland, 
" their life is so void of care, und they ai'e ho loving alno, tfiat 
they mak(! use of tliose things they ejijoy us common, and are 
therein socompassionaU;, that ratlier than one should starve 
througli want, tluiy would starve; all; tlius (h; tfiey pass 
their time merrily, not regarding our pomp, hut are bett(!r 
content with tfieir own, wliich some men esteem so meanly 
of." .Such were the Indians, whilst in the pride and energv 
of their primitive natures; they resem hie those plants which 
thrive best in the shades of the forests, but shrink from 
the hand of cultivation, und perish beneuth tlie influence 
of the sun. 

In iJiscussing the savage character, wiiters have been too 
Hnme to Indulge in vulgar f)rejudif;e und fiassionate exag- 
peration, instead of the c,;ifj<jid tern|)C-r rd' true ohiloHOphy. 
They have not suflicif;ntly considf;red the peculiar circum- 
gtances in which the Indians have been placed, and thu 

Kjculiar pjinciples under which they have been (educated, 
o being acts more rigidly from rules than the Indian. 
Uis whole conduct is regulated according to some general 



250 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

maxims early implanted iu his mind. The moral laws 
that govern him are, to be sure, but few; but then he con- 
forms to them all; — the white man abounds in laws of re- 
ligion, morals, and manners, but how many does he violate! 

A frequent ground of accusation against the Indians is 
their disregard of treaties, and the treachery and wanton- 
ness with which, in time of apparent peace, they will sud- 
denly fly to hostilities. The intercourse of the white men 
with the Indians, however, is too apt to be cold, dis- 
trustful, oppressive, and insulting. They seldom treat 
them with that confidence and frankness which are indis- 
pensable to real friendship; nor is sufficient caution ob- 
served not to offend against those feelings of pride or super- 
stition which often prompt the Indian to hostility quicker 
than mere considerations of interest. The solitar}^ savage 
feels silently, but acutely. His sensibilities are not diffused 
over so wide a surface as those of the white man; but the}' 
rnn in steadier and deeper channels. His pride, his affec- 
tions, his superstitions, are all directed toAvards fewer ob- 
jects; but the wounds inflicted on them are proportionably 
severe, and furnish motives of hostility which we cannot 
sufficiently appreciate. Where a community is also limited 
in number, and forms one great patriarchal family, as in an 
Indian tribe, the injury of an individual is the injury of 
the whole, and the sentiment of vengeance is almost instan- 
taneously diffused. One council-fire is sufficient for the 
discussion and arrangement of a plan of hostilities. Here 
all the fighting men and sages assemble. Eloquence and 
superstition combine to inflame the minds of the warriors. 
"^Che orator awakens their martial ardor, and they are 
wrought up to a kind of religious desperation, by the 
visions of the prophet and the dreamer. 

An instance of one of those sudden exasperations, arising 
from a motive peculiar to the Indian chai-acter, is extant iu 
an old record of the early settlement of Massachusetts. 
The planters of Plymouth had defaced the monuments of 
the dead at Passonagessit, and had plundered the grave of 
the Sachem's mother of some skins with which it had been 
decorated. The Indians are remarkable for the reverence 
which they entertain for the sepulchres of their kindred. 
Tribes that have passed generations exiled from the abodes 
of their ancestors, when by chance they have been travel- 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 251 

ling in the vicinity, liave been known to turn aside from 
the highway, and, guided by wonderfully accurate tradition, 
have crossed the country for miles to some tumulus, buried 
perhaps in woods, where the bones of their tribe were 
anciently deposited, and there have passed hours in silent 
meditation. Influenced by this sublime and holy feeling, 
the Sachem, whose mother's tomb had been violated, gath- 
ered his men together, and addressed them in the following 
beautifully simple and pathetic harangue; a curious speci- 
men of Indian eloquence, and an affecting instance of filial 
piety in a savage: 

" When last the gloi-ious light of all the sky was unders 
neath this globe, and birds grew silent, I began to settle, 
as my custom is, to take repose. Before mine eyes wera 
fast closed, metliought I saw a vision, at which my spirit 
was much troubled; and trembling at that doleful sight, a 
spirit cried aloud, ' Behold, my son, whom I have cher- 
ished, see the breasts that gave thee suck, the hands that 
lapped thee warm, and fed thee oft. Canst thou forget to 
take revenge of those wild people, who have defaced my 
monument in a despiteful manner, disdaining our antiquity 
and honorable customs? See, now, the Sachem's grave lies 
like the common people, defaced by an ignoble race. Thy 
mother doth complain, and implores thy aid against this 
thievish people, who have newly intruded on our land. If 
this be suffered, I shall not rest quiet in my everlasting 
habitation.' This said, the spirit vanished, and I, all in a 
sweat, not able scarce to speak, began to get some strength, 
and re-collected my spirits that were fled, and determined to 
demand your counsel and assistance." 

I have adduced this anecdote at some length, as it tends 
to show how these sudden acts of hostility, which have 
been attributed to caprice and perfidy, may often arise 
from deep and generous motives, which our inattention to 
Indian character and customs prevent our properly appre- 
ciating. 

Another ground of violent outcry against the Indians, is 
their barbarity to the vanquished. This had its origin 
partly in policy and partly in superstition. The tribes, 
though sometimes called nations, were never so formidable 
in their number, but that the loss of several warriors was 
sensibly felt; this was particularly the case when they had 



252 THE SKETCH-BOOK, 

been frequently engaged in warfare; and many an instance 
occurs in Indian history, where a tribe, tliat had long been 
formidable to its neighbors, has been broken up and driven 
away, by the capture and massacre of its jDrincipal fighting 
men. There was a strong temptation, therefore, to the 
victor to be merciless; not so much to gratify any cruelf 
revenge, as to provide for future security. The Indians 
had also the superstitious belief, frequent among barbarous 
nations, and prevalent also among the ancients, that the 
manes of their friends, who had fallen in battle, were 
soothed by the blood of the captives. The prisoners, how- 
ever, who are not thus sacrificed, are adopted into, their 
families in the place of the slain, and are treated with the 
confidence and affection of relatives and friends; nay, so 
hospitable and tender is their entertainment, that when the 
alternative is offered them, they will often prefer to remain 
with their adopted brethren, rather than return to the 
home and the friends of their youth. 

The cruelty of the Indians towards their prisoners has 
been heightened since the colonization of the whites. 
What was formerly a compliance with policy and super- 
stition, has been exasperated into a gratification of ven- 
geance. They cannot but be sensible that the white men 
are the usurpers of their ancient dominion, the cause of 
their degradation, and the gradual destroyers of their race. 
They go forth to battle, smarting with injuries and indig- 
nities which they have individually suffered, and they are 
driven to madness aiul despair by the wide-spreading deso- 
lation, and the overwhelming ruin of European warfai-e. 
The whites have too frequently set them an example of 
violence, by burning their villages and laying waste thcii- 
slender means of subsistence; and yet they wonder tliat 
savages do not show moderation and magnanimity towards 
those who have left them nothing but mere existence and 
wretchedness. 

We stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardly and treacher- 
ous, because they use stratagem in Avarfare, in preference to 
open force; but in this they are fully justified by their rude 
code of honor. They are early taught that stratagem is 

f)raise worthy; the bravest warrior thinks it no disgrace to 
urk in silence, and take every advantage of his foe; he 
triumphs in the superior craft and sagacity by which lie 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 253 

has been enabled to surprise and destroy an enemy. In- 
deed, man is !iatiirullv more prone to snbtility than open 
valor, owing to his physical weakness in comparison with 
other animals. They are endowed with natural weapons 
of defence: with horns, with tusks, with hoofs, and talons; 
but man has to depend on his superior sagacity. In all 
his encounters with these, his proper enemies, he resorts to 
stratagem: and when he perversely turns his hostility 
against his fellow man, he at first continues the same 
subtle mode of warfare. 

The natural principle of w-ar is to do the most harm to 
our enemy, with the least harm to ourselves: and this of 
course is to be eifected by stratagem. That chivalrous 
courage which induces us to despise the suggestions of 
prudence and to rush in the face of certain danger, is the 
offspring of society, and produced by education. It is 
honorable, because it is in fact the triumph of lofty senti- 
ment over an instinctive repugnance to pain, and over 
those yearnings after personal ease and security, which 
society has condemned as ignoble. It is kept alive by 
pride and the fear of shame; and thus the dread of real 
evil is overcome by the superior dread of an evil which 
exists but in the imagination. It has been cherished and 
stimulated also by various means. It has been the theme 
of spirit-stirring song and chivalrous story. The poet and 
minstrel have delighted to shed round it the splendors of 
of fiction; and even the historian has forgotten the sober 
gravity of narration, and broken forth into enthusiasm and 
rhapsody in its praise. Triumphs and gorgeous pageants 
have been its reward; monuments, on which art has ex- 
hausted its skill, and opulence its treasures, have been 
erected to j)erpetuate a nation's gratitude and admiration. 
Thus artificially excited courage has risen to an extra- 
ordinary and factitious degree of heroism; and, arrayed in 
all the glorious ''pomp and circumstance of war," this 
turbulent quality has even been able to eclipse many of 
those quiet, but invaluable virtues, which silently ennoble 
the human character, and swell the tide of human happi- 
ness. 

But if courage intrinsically consists in the defiance of 
danger and pain, the life of the Indian is a continual exhi- 
bition of it. He lives in a state of perpetual hostility and 



254 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

risk. Peril and adventure are congenial to his nature; or 
rather seem necessary to arouse his faculties and to give an 
interest to his existence. Surrounded by hostile tribes, 
whose mode of warfare is by ambush and surprisal, he is 
always prepared for fight, and lives with his weajDons in 
his hands. As the ship careers in fearful singleness 
through the solitudes of ocean, — as the bird mingles 
among clouds and storms, and wings its way, a mere speck, 
across the pathless fields of air; so the Indian holds his 
course, silent, solitary, but undaunted, through the bound- 
less bosom of the wilderness. His expeditions may vie in 
distance and danger with the pilgrimage of the devoted, or 
the crusades of the knight-errant. He traverses vast 
forests, exposed to the hazards of lonely sickness, of lurk- 
ing enemies, and pining famine. Stormy lakes, -^hose 
great inland seas, are no obstacles to his wanderings; in his 
light canoe of bark, he sports like a feather on their waves, 
and darts with the swiftness of an arrow down the roaring 
rapids of the rivers. His very subsistence is snatched from 
the midst of toil and peril. He gains his food by the 
hardships and dangers of the chase; he wraps himself in 
the spoils of the bear, the panther, and the buffalo; and 
sleeps among the thunders of the cataract. 

No hero of ancient or modern days can surpass the In- 
dian in his lofty contempt of death, and the fortitude with 
which he sustains its crnelest affliction. Indeed, we here 
behold him rising superior to the white man, in conse- 
quence of his peculiar education. The latter rushes to 
glorious death at the cannon's mouth; the former calmly 
contemplates its approach, and triumphantly endures it, 
amidst the varied torments of surrounding foes, and the 
protracted agonies of fire. He even takes a pride in 
taunting his persecutors, and provoking their ingenuity of 
torture; and as the devouring flames prey on his very 
vitals, and the flesh shrinks from the sinews, he raises his 
song of triumph, breathing the defiance of an unconquered 
heart, and invoking the spirits of his fathers to witness 
that he dies without a groan. 

Notwithstanding the obloquy with which the early histo- 
rians have overshadowed the characters of the unfortunate 
natives, some bright gleams occasionally break through, 
which throw a degree of melancholy lustre on their mem- 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 255 

ories. Facts are occasionally to be met with in the rude 
annals of the eastern provinces, which, though recorded 
with the coloring of prejudice and bigotry, yet speak for 
themselves, and will be dwelt on with applause and sym- 
pathy when prejudice shall have passed away. 

I]i one of the homely narratives of tlie Indian wars in 
New England, there is a touching account of the desolation 
carried into the tribe ol the Pequod Indians. Humanity 
shrinks from the cold-blooded detail of indiscriminate 
butchery. In one place we read of the surprisal of an In 
dian fort in the night, when the wigwams were wrapt in 
flames, and the miserable inhabitants shot down and slain in 
attempting to escape, '"all being despatched and ended in 
the course of an hour." After a series of similar transac- 
tions, "our soldiers," as the historian piout^ly observes, 
"being resolved by God's assistance to make a final de- 
struction of them," the unhappy savages being hunted 
from their homes and fortresses, and pursued with fire and 
sword, a scanty but gallant baud, the sad remnant of the 
Pequod warriors, with their wives and children, took refuge 
in a swamp. 

Burning with indignation, and rendered sullen by des- 
pair; with hearts bursting with grief at the destruction of 
their tribe, and spirits galled and sore at the fancied ig- 
nominy of their defeat, they refused to ask their lives at the 
hands of an insulting foe, and preferred death to submis- 
sion. 

As the night drew on, they were surrounded in their dis- 
mal retreat, so as to render escape impracticable. Thus 
situated, their enemy "plied them with shot all the time, 
by which means many were killed and buried in the mire." 
In the darkness and fog that preceded the dawn of day, 
some few broke through the besiegers and escaped into the 
woods: "the rest were left to the conquerors, of which 
many were killed in the swamp, like sullen dogs who would 
rather, in their self-willedness and madness, sit still and be 
shot through, or cut to pieces," than implore for mercy. 
When the day broke upon this handful of forlorn but 
s^auntless spirits, the soldiers, we are told, entering the 
swamp, " saw several heaps of them sitting close together, 
upon whom they discharged their pieces, laden with ten or 
twelve pistol-bullets at a time; putting the muzzles of the 



256 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

pieces under the boughs, within a few yards of them; so 
as, besides those tliat were found dead, many more wqvq 
killed and sunk into the mire, and never were minded more 
by friend or foe." 

Can anyone read this plain unvarnished tale, without ad- 
miring the stern resolution, the unbciuiing pride, the lofti- 
ness of spirit, that seemed to nerve the hearts of these self- 
taught heroes, aiul to raise them above the instinctive feel- 
ings of human nature? When the Gauls laid waste the 
(!ity of Eome, they found the seiuitors clothed in their 
robes and seated with stern tran([uility in their curule 
chairs; in this manner they suffered death without resist- 
ance or even supplication. Such conduct was, in them, 
applauded as noble and magnanimous — in the hapless In- 
dians, it was reviled as obstinate and sullen. How truly 
are we the dupes of show and circumstance! HovvHiffer- 
ent is virtue clothed in pur2)le and enthroned in state, 
from virtue miked and destitute, and perishing obscurely in 
a wilderness! 

But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pictures. The 
eastern tribes have long since disappeared; the forests that 
sheltered them have been laid low, and scarce any traces re- 
main of them in the thickly-settled States of New England, 
excepting here and there the Indian name of a village or a 
stream. And such must sooner or later be the fate of those 
other tribes which skirt the frontiers, and have occasion- 
ally been inveigled from their forests to mingle in the wars 
of white men. In a little while, and they will go the way 
that their brethren have gone before. The few hordes 
which still linger about the shores of Huron and Superior, 
and the tributary streams of the Mississippi, will share the 
fate of those tribes that once spread over Massachusetts 
and Coimocticut, and lorded it along the proud banks of 
the Hudson; of that gigantic race said to have existed on 
the borders of the Susquehanna; and of those various 
nations that flourished about the I'otomac and the Kappa- 
hannock, and that peopled the forests of the vast valley of the 
Shenandoah. They will vanish like a va})or from the face 
of the earth; their very history will be lost in forgetfulness; 
and " the places that now know them will know them no 
more forever." Or if, perchance, some dubious memorial 
of them should survive^ it may be in the romantic dreams 



TRAITS OF INDIAN GUARAOTER. 257 

of the poet, to people in imagination his glades and groves, 
like tlie fauns and satyrs and sylvan deities of antiquity. 
Bnt should he venture upon the dark story of their wrongs 
and wretchedness; should he tell how tliey were invaded, 
corrupted, despoiled; driven from their native abodes ancj 
the sepulchres of their fathers; hunted like wild beasts 
about the earth; and sent down with violence and butchery 
to tiie grave — posterity will either turn with horror and in- 
credulity from the tale, or blush with indignation at the 
inhumanity of their forefathers. — "We are driven back," 
siiid an old warrior, "until we can retreat no farther — our 
hatchets are broken, our bows are snajiped, our fires are 
nearly extinguished — a little longer and the white man will 
cease to persecute us — for we shall cease to exist/' 



258 THE SKETCH-BOOK, 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 

AN INDIAN MKMOIR. 

As monumontal bronze unchiinged his look: 
A soul, tliat pity louch'd, but novor shook; 
Traiu'd, from his troo-rock'd cradio to bis bier, 
The lien'.e extremes of f^<Mid and ill to brook 
Impassive — fearing but the shame of fear — 
A stoic of the woods — a man without a ttuvr. 

CAM1M5E1,L,. 

It is to be rogi-etted that those o:irly writers who treated 
of the discovery uiul settlement of America, have not given 
us more particular and candid accounts of the reruark- 
abk> characters that flourished in savage life. The scanty 
anecdotes whicli have reached us are full of ])ecidia.rity and 
interest; they furnish us with nearer glimpses of hunuin 
nature, and show wliat man is in a comparatively primitive 
state, and what he owes to civilization. 'J'here is some- 
thing of the charm of discovery in lighting upon these 
wild and unexplored tracts of hunuin nature; in witnessing, 
as it were, the native growth of moral sentiment; and per- 
ceiving those generous ami romantics qualities which have 
been ai'tilicially cultivated by society, vegetating in sponta- 
neous hardihood ami rude nuignilicence. 

In civilized life, where the happiness, ami indeed almost 
the existence, of num depeiuls so much upon the o})inion of 
his fellow men, he is constantly acting a studied part. 
The bold and peculiar traits of native charactc^r are retine<I 
away, or softened down by the leveling influence of what in 
termed good breeding; and he practices so many petty de- 
ceptions, and aii'ects so many generous sentiments, for the 
purposes of popularity, that it is diflicult to distinguish 
his real from his artificial character. The Indian, on the 
contrary, free from the restraints and refinements of pol- 
ished life, and in a great degree a solitary and iiulependout 
being, obeys the impulst's oi liis inclination or the tiictates 
of his judgment; and thus the attributes of his nature. 



PHILTF OF POKANOKET. 25!^ 

Jioiiig freely indulged, grow singly great and striking. 
^^^)<:■]('.iv is likf) h lawn, where evei-y roughness is smoothed, 
every bramble eradicated, and where the eve is delighted by 
the smiling verdure of a velvet surface; he, however, who 
^.vould study Nature in its wildness and variety, must 
plunge into the forest, must explore the glen, must stem 
the torrent and dare the precipice. 

These reflections arose on casually looking through a vol- 
ume of early colonial history wherein are recorded, with 
great bitterness, the outrages of the Indians, and their wais 
with the settlers of New England. It is painful to perceive, 
even from these partial narratives, how the footsteps of 
civilization may be traced in the blood of the aborigines; 
how easily the colonists were moved to hostility by the luat 
of conquest; how merciless and exterminating was their 
warfare. The imagination shrinks at the idea, how many 
intellectual beings were hunted from the earth— how many 
bravo and noble hearts, of Nature's sterling coinage, were 
broken down and trampled in the dust! 

Such was the fate of Piillip op Pokanoket, an Indian 
warrior, whose name was once a terror throughout Massa- 
chusetts and Connecticut. He was the most distinguished 
of a number of cotemporary Sachems who reigned over the 
Pequods, the Narragansetts, the Wampanoags, and the 
other eastern tribes, at the time of the first settlement of 
New England: a band of native untaught heroes, who 
made the moat generous struggle of which human nature 
18 capable; fighting to the last gasp in the cause of their 
country, without a hope of victory or a thought of renown. 
Worthy of an age of poetry, and fit subjects for local story 
and romantic fiction, they have left scarcely any authentic 
traces on the page of history, but stalk like gigantic shad- 
ows, in the dim twilight of tradition.* 

When the pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are called by 
their descendants, first took refuge on the shores of the 
New World, from the religious persecutions of the Old, 
their situation was to the last degree gloomy and disheart- 
ening. Few in number, and that number rapidly perishing 
away through sickness and hardships; surrounded by a 
howling wil derness and savage tribes; exposed to the rigors 

♦v,»**^^I^*J'"*."''?"t!"*f,.*?^ proof-sheets of this article, the author ITinformal 
^T'^,»,V^K''^ i'-;iKl)8h poet has nearly fiulshed a heroic poem on the story 
oi FnUlp of Fokanoket. 



260 TEE SKETCH-BOOK, 

of an almost arctic winter, and the vicissitudes of an ever- 
shifting climate; their minds were filled with doleful for«^- 
bodiugs, and nothing preserved them from sinking into 
despondency but the strong excitement of religious enthu- 
siasm. In this forlorn situation they were visited by Mas- 
sasoit, chief Sagamore of the Wampanoags, a powerful 
chief, who reigned over a great extent of country. Instead 
of taking advantage of tlie scanty number of the strangers, 
and expelling them from his territories into wliich they 
had intruded, he seemed at once to conceive for them a 
generous friendship, and extended towards them the rites 
of primitive hospitality. He came early in the spring to 
their settlement of New Plymouth, attended by a mere 
handful of followers; entered into a solemn league of peace 
and amity; sold them a portion of tlie soil, and promised 
to secure for them the good- will of his savage allies. 
Whatever may be said of Indian perfidy, it is certain 
that the integrity and good faith of Massasoit have never 
been impeached. He continued a firm and magnanimous 
friend of the white men; sufl;ering them to extend their 
possessions, and to strengthen themselves in the land; and 
betraying no jealousy of their increasing power and pros- 
perity. Shortly before his death, he came once more to 
New Plymouth, with his son Alexander, for the purpose of 
renewing the covenant of peace, and securing it to his pos- 
terity. 

At this conference, he endeavored to protect the religion 
of his forefathers from the encroaching zeal of the mission- 
aries, and stipulated that no farther attempt should be 
made to draw off his people from their ancient faith; but, 
finding the English obstinately opposed to any such condi- 
tion, he mildly relinquished the demand. Almost the last 
act of his life was to bring his two sons, Alexander and 
Philip (as they had been named by the English) to the resi- 
dence of a principal settler, recommending mutual kind- 
ness and confidence; and entreating that tbe same love and 
amity which had existed between the white men and him- 
self, might be continued afterwards with his children. 
The good old Sachem died in peace, and was happily gath- 
ered to his fathers before sorrow came upon his tribe; his 
children remained behind to experience the ingratitude of 
white men. 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 261 

His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him He was of a 
Quick and impetuous temper, and proudly tenacious of his 
?ie edi?riy rilhts and dignity. The intrusive poUcy and 
dictatoml conduct of the strangers excited his indignation, 
and he beh^ with uneasiness their exterminating wars 
w th the leLhboring tribes. He was doomed soon to in~ 
^n their ho fill ty, being accused of plotting with the Nai- 
7!.^^l^T^^-^^g^u^^ the English and drive them from 
tflmd It impossible to say whether this accusation 
l^s warranter by facts, or was grounded on mere susp i- 
^as ^'^^!f":7 .,J , however, by the violent and overbear- 
r."measure?ot the ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 1-d by this time be- 

SXl conscious of thJ rapid increase of their power 
and to grow harsh and inconsiderate in their treatment o 
the natives They despatched an armed force to se^e 
upon Alexander, and to bring him before th^ir court He 
Z. traced to his woodland l-!^^^^%Xl'Z"o^h siw"- 

^ lz^;S;^:?t^rt^}rr§:^h^^^^^ 

aie as t^tCw him into a raging fever; he was pemnt ed 
tfiVturn 1 ome on condition o1 sending his son as a pledge 
for his reappearance; but the blow he had received was 
fatal, and before he reached his home he fell a victim to 
the ao-onies of a wounded spirit. „ ^ „„ ■«-,•„<» 

The successor of Alexander was Pometacom, or King 
Phi Id as he was called by the settlers, on account of his 
lofv spirit and ambitious temper. These together with 
hfsLn-known energy and enterprise had rendei-ed l^n 
anobiectof great ilalousy and apprehension, and he was 
accused of having always cherished a secret and ^"^P^cable 
EiUtv towards the whites. Such may very probably, and 
vPrv SuraUv have been the case. He considered them as 
oridnally but' mere intruders into the country, who had 
Sumed upon indulgence, and were extending an mtluence 
nXlto savacre life! He saw the whole race ot his coun- 
trvmenmeS before them from the face of the earth; 
ETerrltirief slipping from their hands and their rib s 
becoming feeble, scattered, and dependent. It may be saiQ 
that the soil was originally purchased oy the settlers; but 
wuo does not know the nature of Indian purciiases, m the 



263 THE 8KETGE-B00K. 

early periods of colonization? The Europeans ahvays made 
thrifty bargains, through their superior adroitness in traffic; 
and they gained vast accessions of territory, by easily-pro- 
voked hostilities. An uncultivated savage is never a nice 
inquirer into the refinements of law, by which an injury 
may be gradually and legally inilicted. Leading facts are 
all by which he judges; and it was enough for Philip to 
know, that before the intrusions of the Europeans his coun- 
trymen were lords of the soil, and that now they were be- 
coming vagabonds in the land of their fathers. 

But whatever may have been his feelings of general hos- 
tility, and his particular indignation at the treatment of 
his brother, he suppressed them for the present; renewed 
the contract with the settlers; and resided peaceably for 
many years at Pokanoket, or as it was called by the Eng- 
lish, Mount Hope,* the ancient seat of dominion of~his 
tribe. Suspicions, however, which were at first but vague 
and indefinite, began to acquire form and substance; and 
he was at length charged with attempting to instigate the 
various eastern tribes to rise at once, and, by a simultaneous 
effort, to throw off the yoke of their oppressors. It is diffi- 
cult at this distant period to assign the proper credit due 
to these early accusations against the Indians. There was 
a proneness to suspicion, and an aptness to acts of violence 
on the part of the whites, that gave weight and importance 
to every idle tale. Informers abounded, where tale-bearing 
met with countenance and reward; and the sword was 
readily unsheathed, when its success was certain, and it 
carved out empire. 

The only positive evidence on record against Philip is the 
accusation of one Sausaman, a renegade Indian, whose 
natural cunning had been quickened by a partial education 
which he had received among the settlers. He changed his 
faith and allegiance two or three times with a facility that 
evinced the looseness of his principles. He had acted for some 
time as Philip's confidential secretary and counsellor, and 
had enjoyed his bounty and protection. Finding, however, 
that the clouds of adversity were gathering round his 
patron, he abandoned his service and went over to the 
whites; and, in order to gain their favor, charged his 
former benefactor with plotting against their safety. A 

^ ^OTT Bi'istol. Kkode Island. 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 263 

rigorous inveatigutiou took place. Phili}) and several of liis 
subjects submitted to be examined, but nothing was proved 
against tliom. The settlers, however, had now gone too 
far to retract; they had previously determined tliat Philip 
was a dangerous neighbor; they had previously evinced their 
distrust, and had done enough to insure his hostility: ac- 
cording, therefore, to the usual mode of reasoning in 
these cases, his destruction had become necessary to tlieir 
security. Sausaman, the treacherous informer, was shortly 
after found dead in a pond, having fallen a victim to tiie 
vengeance of his tribe. Throe Indians, one of whom was 
a friend and counsellor of Philip, were apprehended and 
tried, and, on the testimony of one very questionable wit- 
ness, were condemned and executed as murderers. 

This treatment of his subjects and ignominious punish- 
ment of his friend outraged the pride and exasperated the 
passions of Philip. The bolt which had fallen thus at his 
very feet awakened him to the gathering storm, and he de- 
termined to trust himself no longer in the power of the 
white men. The fate of his insulted and broken-hearted 
brother still rankled in his mind; and he had a farther 
warning in tlie tragical story of Miantonomoh, a great 
Sachem of tlie Nai'ragansetts, who, after manfully facing 
his accusei'S before a tribunal of the colonists, exculpating 
himself from a charge of conspiracy, and receiving assur- 
ances of amity, had been perlidiously despatched at their 
instigation. Philip, thorefore, gathered his fighting men 
about him; persuaded all strangers that he could to join his 
cause; sent the women and children to the Narragansetts 
for safety; and wherever he a^jpeared, was continually sur- 
rounded by armed warriors. 

Wheji tile two parties were thus in a state of distrust and 
irritation, the least spark was sufficient to set them in a 
flame. The Indians, having weapons in their hands, grew 
mischievous, and committed various petty depredations. 
In one of tlieir maraudings, a wari'ior was lired upon and 
killed by a settler. This was the sigmil for open hostilities; 
the Indians pressed to revenge the death of their com- 
rade, and the alarm of war resounded through the Ply- 
mouth colony. 

In the early chronicles of these dark and melancholy 
times, we meet with many indications of the diseased state 



264 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

of the public mind. The gloom of religious abstraction, 
and the wildness of their situation, among trackless forests 
and savage tribes, had disposed the colonists to supersti- 
tious fancies, and had filled their imaginations with the 
frightful chimeras of witchcraft and spectrology. They 
were much given also to a belief in omens. The troubles 
with Philip and his Indians were preceded, we are told, by 
a variety of those awful warnings which forerun great and 
public calamities. The perfect arm of an Indian bow ap- 
peared in the air at New Plymouth, which was looked upon 
by the inhabitants as a "prodigious apparition." At Had- 
ley, Northampton, and other towns in their neighborhood, 
" was heard the report of a great piece of ordnance, with 
the shaking of the earth and a considerable echo. "* Others 
were alarmed on a still sunshiny morning by tlie discharge 
of guns and muskets; bullets seemed to whistle past them, 
and the noise of drums resounded in the air, seeming to 
pass away to the westward; others fancied that they heard 
the galloping of horses over their heads; and certain mon- 
strous births which took place about the time filled the 
superstitious in some towns with doleful forebodings. 
Many of these portentous sights and sounds may be as- 
cribed to natural phenomena; to the northern lights which 
occur vividly in those latitudes; the meteors which explode 
in the air; the casual rushing of a blast through the top 
branches of the forest; the crash of falling trees or dis- 
rupted rocks; and to those other uncouth sounds and 
echoes which will sometimes strike the ear so strangely 
amidst the profound stillness of woodland solitudes. These 
may have startled some melancholy imaginations, may 
have been exaggerated by the love for the marvellous, and 
listened to with that avidity with which we devour what- 
ev3r is fearful and mysterious. The universal currency of 
these superstitious fancies, and the grave record made of 
them by one of the learned men of the day, are strongly 
characteristic of the times. 

The nature of the contest that ensued was such as 
too often distinguishes the warfare between civilized men 
and savages. On the part of the whites, it was conducted 
with superior skill and success, but with a wastefulness of 

* TIm Rev. iQcroase Mather's History. 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. S65 

the blood, and a disregard of the natural rights of their 
antagonists; on the part of the Indians it was waged with 
the desperation of men fearless of death, and who had noth- 
ing to expect from peace but humiliation, dependence and 

^The events of the war are transmitted to us by a worthy 
clertryman of the time, who dwells with horror and indig- 
nation on every hostile act of the Indians, however justiii- 
able whilst he mentions with applause the most sanguinary 
atrocities of the whites. Philip is reviled r a murderer 
and a traitor; without considering that he was a true-born 
prince, gallantly fighting at the head of his siib]ect8 to 
avenge the tottering power of his line; and to deliver his 
native land from the oppression of usurping strangers. 

The project of a wide and simultaneous revolt, it such 
had reallv been formed, was worthy of a capacious mind, and 
had it not been prematurely discovered, might have been 
overwhelming in its consequences. The war that actually 
broke out was but a war of detail; a mere succession ot 
casual exploits and unconnected enterprises, bti 11 it sets 
forth the military genius and daring prowess of Philip; and 
wherever, in the prejudiced and passionate narrations that 
have been given of it, we can arrive at simple facts, we find 
him displaying a vigorous mind; a fertility in expedients; a 
contempt of suffering and hardship; and an unconquerable 
resolution, that comnnind our sympathy and applause. 

Driven from his paternal domains at Mount Hope, he 
threw himself into the depths of those vast and trackless 
forests that skirted the settlements, and were almost im- 
pervious to anything but a wild beast or an Indian. Here 
he gathered together his forces, like the storm accumulating 
its stores of mischief in the bosom of the thunder-cloud, 
and would suddenly emerge at a time and place least ex- 
pected, carrying havoc and dismay into the villages, ihere 
were now and then indications of these impending ravages 
that filled the minds of the colonists with awe and appre- 
hension. The report of a distant gun would perhaps be 
heard from the solitary woodland, where there was known 
to be no white man; the cattle which had been wandering 
in the woods, would sometimes return home wounded; or 
an Indian or two would be seen lurking about the skirts ot 
the forests, and suddenly disappearing; as the lightning 



266 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

will sometimes be seen playing silently about the edge of 
the cloud that is brewing up the tempest. 

Though sometimes pursued, and even surrounded by the 
settlers, yet Pliilip as often escaped almost miraculously 
from their toils; and plunging into tbe wilderness, would 
be lost to all search or inquiry until he again emerged at 
some far distant quarter, laying the country desolate. 
Among his strongholds were the groat swamps or morasses, 
which extend in some parts of New England; composed of 
loose bogs of deep black mud; perplexed with thickets, 
brambles, rank weeds, the shattered and mouldering trunks 
of fallen trees, overshadowed by lugubrious hemlocks. The 
uncertain footing and the tangled mazes of these shaggy 
wilds, rendered them almost impracticable to the white 
man, though the Indian could thread their labyrinths-with 
the agility of a deer. Into one of these, the great swamp 
of Pocasset Neck, was Philip once driven with a band of his 
followers. T-he English did not dare to pursue him, fear- 
ing to venture into these dark and frightful recesses, where 
they might perish in fens and miry pits or be shot down b}' 
lurking foes. They therefore invested the entrance to the 
neck, and began to build a fort, with the thought of starv- 
ing out the foe; but Pliilij) and his warriors wafted them- 
selves on a raft over an arm of the sea, in the dead of night, 
leaving the women and children behind, and escaped away 
to the westward, kindling the flames of war among the 
tribes of Massachusetts and the Nipmuck country, and 
threatening the colony of Connecticut. 

In this way Philip became a theme of universal appre- 
hension. The mystery in which he was enveloped exagger- 
ated his real terrors. He was an evil that walked in 
darkness; whose coming none could foresee, and against 
which none knew when to be on the alert. The whole 
country abounded with rumors and alarms. Philip seeuied 
almost possessed of ubiquity; for, in whatever part of the 
widely extended frontier an irruption from the forest took 
place, Philip was said to be its leader. Many superstitious 
Tiotions also were circulated concerning him. He was said 
to deal in necromancy, and to be attended by an old Indian 
witch or prophetess, whom he consulted, and who assisted 
him by her charms and iiicantations. This indeed was 
frequently the case with Indian chiefs; either through their 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 267 

own credulit}', or to act upon that of their followers: aud 
the influence of the prophet and the dreamer over Indian 
superstition has been fully evidenced in recent instances of 
savage warfare. 

At the time that Philip effected his escape from Pocas- 
set, his fortunes were in a desperate condition. His forces 
had been thinned by repeated fights, and he had lost almost 
the whole of his resources. In this time of adversity he 
found a faithful friend in Canonchet, Chief Sachem of all 
the Narragansetts. He was the son and heir of Mianto- 
nornoh, the great Sachem, who, as already mentioned, after 
an honorable acquittal of the charge of conspiracy, had 
been privately put to death at the perfidious instigations of 
the settlers, "He was the heir," sa3's the old chronicler, 
''of all his father's pride and insolence, as well as of his 
malice towards the English;" he certainly was the heir of 
his insults and injuries, and the legitimate avenger of his 
murder. Though he had forborne to take an active part 
in this hopeless war, yet he received Philip and his broken 
forces with open arms, and gave them the most generous 
countenance and support. This at once drew upon him 
the hostility of the English; and it was determined to 
strike a signal blow, that should involve both the Sachems 
in one common ruin. A great force was, therefore, gath- 
ered together from Massachusetts, Plymouth, and Con- 
necticut, and was sent into the Narragansett country in 
the depth of winter, when the swamps, being frozen and 
leafless, could be traversed with comparative facility, and 
would no longer afford dark and impenetrable fastnesses to 
the Indians. 

Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had conveyed the 
greater part of his stores, together with the old, the infirm, 
the women and children of his tribe, to a strong fortress, 
where he and Pliilip had likewise drawn up the flower of 
their forces. This fortress, deemed by the Indians im- 
Ijregnable, was situated upon a rising mound or kind of 
island, of five or six acres, in the midst of a swamp; it was 
constructed with a degree of judgment and skill vastly 
superior to what is usually displayed in Indian fortification, 
and indicative of the martial genius of these two chieftains. 

Guided by a renegade Indian, the English penetrated, 
through December snows, to this stronghold, aud c*me 



268 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

upon the garrisou by surprise. Tlie fight was fierce and 
tumultuous. The assailants were repulsed in their first 
attack, and several of their bravest ollicors were shot down 
in the act of storming the fortress sword in hand. The 
assault was renewed with greater success. A lodgement 
was effected. The Indians were driven from one post to 
another. They disputed their ground inch by inch, fight- 
ing with the fury of despair. Most of their veterans were 
cut to pieces; and after a long and bloody battle, Philip 
and Canonchet, with a handful of surviving warriors, re- 
treated from the fort, and took refuge in the thickets of 
the surrounding forest. 

The victors set fire to the wigwams and the fort; the 
whole was soon in a blaze; many of the old men, the 
women and the children, perished in the flames. Tiiis 
last outrage overcame even the stoicism of the savage. The 
neighboring wood resounded with the yells of rage and des- 
pair, uttered by the fugitive warriors as they beheld the 
destruction of their dwellings, and heard the agoni;^ing 
cries of their wives and oifspring. "The burning of the 
wigwams," says a cotemporary writer, " the shrieks and 
cries of the women and children, and the yelling of the 
warriors, exhibited a most horrible and affecting scene, so 
that it greatly moved some of the soldiers." The same 
writer cautiously adds, " They were in mndi doubt then, 
and afterwards seriously inquired, whether burning their 
enemies alive could be consistent with humanity, and the 
benevolent principles of the gospel."* 

The fate of the brave and generous Canonchet is worthy 
of particular mention; the last scene of his life is one of 
the noblest instances on record of Indian magnanimity. 

Broken down in his power and resources by this signal 
defeat, yet faithful to his ally and to the hapless cause 
which he had espoused, he rejected all overtures of peace, 
offered on condition of betraying Philip and his followers, 
and declared that " he would fight it out to the last man, 
rather than become a servant to the English." Ilis home 
being destroyed, his country harassed and laid waste by 
the incursions of the conquerors, he was obliged to wander 
away to the banks of the Connecticut; where he formed a 



* MS. of the Rev. W. Ru^gles. 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 269 

rallying point to the whole body of western Indians, and 
laid waste several of the Englisii settlements. 

Early in the spring, he departed on a hazardous expedi- 
tion, with only thirty chosen rneu, to penetrate to Seaconck, 
in the vicinity of Mount Hope, and to procure seed-corn 
to plant for the sustenance of his troops. This little band 
of adventurers had passed safely through the Pequod coun- 
try, and were in the centre of the Narragansett, resting at 
some wigwams near Pawtucket river, when an alarm was 
given of an approaching enemy. Having but seven men 
by him at the time, Canonchet despatched two of them to 
tlie top of a neighboring hill, to bring intelligence of the 
foe. 

Panic-struck by the appearance of a troop of English and 
Indians rapidly advancing, they fled in breathless terror past 
their chieftain, without stopping to inform him of the dan- 
ger. Canonchet sent another scout, who did the same, 
ile then sent two more, one of whom, hurrying back in 
(!onfusion and affright, told him that the whole British 
army was at hand. Canonchet saw there was no choice 
but immediate flight. He attempted to escape round the 
hill, but was perceived and hotly pursued by the hostile In- 
dians, and a few of the fleetest of the English. Finding 
the swiftest pursuer close upon his heels, he threw off, first 
his blanket, then his silver-laced coat and belt of peag, by 
which his enemies knew him to be Canonchet, and re- 
doubled the eagerness of pursuit. 

At length, in dashing through the river, his foot slipped 
upon a stone, and he fell so deep as to wet his gun. This ac- 
cident so struck him with despair, that, as he afterwards 
confessed, " his heart and his bowels turned within him, 
and he became like a rotten stick, void of strength." 

To such a degree was he unnerved, that being seized by 
a Pequod Indian within a short distance of the river, he 
made no resistance, though a man of great vigor of body 
and boldness of heart. But on being made prisoner, the 
whole pride of his spirit arose within him; and from that 
moment, we find, in the anecdotes given by his enemies, 
nothing but repeatied flashes of elevated and i)rince-like 
heroism. Being questioned by one of the English who 
first came up with him, and who had not attained his 
twenty-second year^ the proud-hearted warrior, looking with 



270 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

lofty contempt upon this youthful countenance, replied, 
*' You are a child — you cannot understand matters of war — 
let your brother or your chief come — him will I answer." 

Though repeated olTers were made to him of his life, on 
condition of submitting with his nation to the English, yet 
he rejected them with disdain, and refused to send any 
proposals of the kind to the great body of his subjects; 
saying, that he knew none of them would comply. Being 
reproached with his breach of faith towards the whites; 
his boast that he would not deliver up a Wampanoag, nor 
the parings of a Wampanoag's nail; and his threat that he 
would burn the English alive in their houses; he disdained 
to justify himself, haughtily answering that others were as 
forward for the war as himself, " and he desired to4icar no 
more thereof." 

So noble and unshaken a spirit, so true a fidelity to his 
cause and his friend, might have touched the feelings of 
the generous and the brave; but Canonchet was an Indian; 
a being towards whom war had no courtesy, luunanity no 
law, religion no compassion — he was condemned to die. 
The last words of Ins that are recorded, are worthy the 
greatness of his soul. When sentence of death was passed 
upon him, he observed " that he liked it well, for he sliould 
die before his heart was soft, or he had spoken anything 
unworthy of himself." His enemies gave hiui the death of 
a soldier, for he was shot at Stoningham, by three young 
Sachems of his own rank. 

The defeat of the Narragansett forces, and the death 
of Canonchet, were fatal blows to the fortunes of King 
rhilip. He made an ineffectual attempt to raise a head 
of war, by stirring up the Mohawks to take arms; biii. 
though possessed of the native talents of a statesman, hi!-, 
arts were counteracted by the superior arts of his enlight- 
ened enemies, and the terror of their warlike skill begun 
to subdue the resolution of the neigl^boring tribes. The 
unfortunate chieftain saw himself daily stripped of power, 
and his ranks rapidly thinning around him. Some were 
suborned by the whites; others fell victims to hunger and 
fatigue, and to the frequent attacks by which they were 
harassed. His stores were all captui'ed; his chosen friends 
were swept away from before his eyes; his uncle was shot 
down by his side; his sister was carried into captivity; and 



PHILIP or POKANOKET. 271 

and in one of his narrow escapes he was compelled to leave 
his beloved wife and only son to the mercy of the enemy. 
"His ruin," says the historian, " being thus gradually car- 
ried on, his misery was not prevented, but augmented 
thereby; being himself made acquainted with the sense and 
experimental feeling of the captivity of his children, loss 
of friends, slaughter of his subjects, bereavement of all 
family relations, and being stripped of all outward com- 
forts, before his own life should be taken away." 

To fill up the measure of his misfortunes, his own fol- 
lowers began to plot against his life, that by sacrificing hinj 
they might purchase dishonorable safety. Through 
treachery, a number of his faithful adherents, the subjects 
of Wetamoe, an Indian princess of Pocasset, a near kins- 
woman and confederate of Philip, were betrayed into the 
liands of the enemy* Wetamoe was among them at the 
time, and attempted to make her escape by crossing a 
neighboringriver:either exhausted by swimming, or starved 
Avith cold and hunger, she was found dead and luiked near 
the water side. But pei'secntion ceased not at the grave: 
even death, the refuge of the wretched, where the wicked 
conimonly cease from troubling, was no protection to this 
outcast female, whose great crime was affectionate fidelity 
to her kinsman and her frieiul. Iler corpse was the ob- 
ject of unmanly and dastardly vengeance; the head was 
severed from the body and set upon a pole, and was thus 
exposed, at Taunton, to the view of her captive subjects. 
They immediately recognized the features of their unfortu- 
nate queen, and were so affected at this barbarous spec- 
tacle, that we are told they broke forth into the " most 
horrid and diabolical lamentations." 

However Philip had borne up against the complicated 
miseries and misfortunes that surrounded him, the treach- 
ery of his followers seemed to wring his heart and reduced 
him to despondency. It is said that "he never rejoiced 
afterwards, nor had success in any of his designs." The 
spring of hope was broken — the ardor of enterprise was ex- 
tinguished: he looked around, and all was danger and 
darkness; there was no eye to pity him. nor any arm that 
could bring deliverance. With a scanty band of followers, 
who still remained true to his desperate fortunes, the un- 
happy Philip wandered back to the vicinity of Mount 



272 THE Sh'KTCH-noOK. 

Hope, the ancient dwelling of liis fiithers. Here he lurked 
about, '*■ like a speetre among the i?eenes of former powor 
and prosperity, now bereft of home, of family, and friend."' 
There needs no better pietnre of his destitute and piteous 
situation, than that furnished by the homely pen of the 
chronicler, who is unwarily enlisting the feelings of the 
reader in favor of the hapless warrior whom he reviles. 
'* JMiilip," he says, " like a savage wiKI beast, having been 
hunted by the Kuglish forces through the woods above a 
Inmdred miles backward aiul forward, at last was driven to 
his own den u}ion Mount Hope, where he had retired, with 
a few of his best friends, into a swamp, which proved but 
a prison to keep him fast till the messengers of death 
came by divine permission to execute vengeance upon 
him." 

Even at this last refuge of desperation and despair, a 
sullen granduer gathers round his memory. We picture 
him to ourselves seated among his careworn followers, 
brooding in silence over his blasted fortunes, and acquiring 
a savage sublimity from the wilduess and dreariness of his 
lurking-place. Defeated, but not dismayed — crushed to 
the earth, but not humiliated — he seemed to grow more 
haughty beneath disaster and to experience a tierce satisfac- 
lion in draining the last dregs of bitterness. Little minds 
are tameil and subdued by misfortune; but great miiuls rise 
ubove it. The very idea of submission awakened the fury 
of Philip, and he smote to death one of his followers, who 
proposed an expedient of peace. The brother of the victim 
made his escape, and in revenge betrayed the retreat of his 
(ihieftain. A body of white men and Indians were imme- 
diately despatched to the swamp were Philip lay crouched, 
glaring with fury and despair. Before he was aware of 
their approach, they had begun to surround him. In a 
little while he saw five of his trustiest followers laid dead at 
liis feet; all resistance was vain; he rushed forth from his 
rovert, and made a headlong attempt at escape, but was 
shot through the heart by a renegade Indian of his own 
nation. 

Such is the scanty story of the brave, but unfortunate 
King Philip; persecuted while living, slandered and dis- 
honored when dead, if, however, we consider even the 
l^rejudiced anecdotes furnished us by his enemies, we may 



r HI LIP OF POKANOKET. 273 

perceive in them traccH of amiable and loffcj character, 
HufTiciont to awaken .sympatliy for his fate and respect for 
his memory. We find, that amidst all the harassing cares 
an<! ferocious passions of constant warfare, he was alive to 
the softer feelings of connubial love and paternal tender- 
ness, and to the generous sentiment of friendship. The 
captivity of his "beloved wife and oidy son" is mentioned 
with exultation, as causing him poignant misery: the death 
of any near friend is triumphantly recorded as a new blow 
on his s(!nsibiiities; but the ti'eachery and desertion of many 
of his followers, in whose affections he had confided, is said 
lo have desolated his heart, and to have bereaved him of 
all farther comfort. He was a patriot, attached to his 
native soil — a prince true to his subjects, and indignant of 
their wrongs — a soldier, daring in battle, firm in adversity, 
patient of fatigue, of hunger, of every variety of bodily suf- 
fering, and ready to perish in the cause he had espoused. 
Proud of heart, and with an untamable love of natural 
liberty, he preferred to enjoy it among the beasts of the 
forests, or in the dismal and famished recesses of swamps 
and morasses, rather than bow his haughty spirit to sub- 
mission, and live dependent and despised in the ease and 
luxury of the settlements. With heroic qualities and bold 
achievements that would have graced a civilized warrior, 
and have rendered him the theme of the poet and the his- 
torian, he lived a wanderer and a fugitive in his native 
land, and went down, like a lonely bark, foundering amid 
darkness and tempest — without a pitying eye to weep his 
fall, or a friendly hand to record his struggle. 



274 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 



JOHN BULL. 

An old song, made by an aged old pate, 
Of an old worshipful gentleuian who had a great estate. 
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate. 
And an old porter to relieve the poor at hit; gate. 
With an old study till'd full of learned books, 
With an old reverend chaphiin, you might know him by his looks, 
With an old buttery-hatch worn quite off the hooks. 
And an old kitchen that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks. 

Like an old courtier, &c. -^ 
Old Song. 

There is no species of humor in which the English 
more excel, than that which consists in caricaturing and 
giving ludicrous appellations or nick-names. In this way 
they have whimsically designated, not merely individuals, 
but nations; and in their fondness for pushing a joke, they 
have not spared even themselves. One would think that, 
in personifying itself, a nation would be apt to picture 
something grand, heroic, and imposing; but it is character- 
istic of the peculiar humor of the English, and of their 
love for what is blunt, comic, and familiar, that they have 
embodied their national oddities in the figure of a sturdy, 
corpulent old fellow, with a three-cornered hat, red waist- 
coat, leather breeches, and stout oaken cudgel. Thus they 
have taken a singular delight in exhibiting their most pri- 
vate foibles in a laughable point of view; and have been so 
successful in their delineation, that there is scarcely a being 
in actual existence more absolutely present to the public 
mind than that eccentric personage, John Bull. 

Perhaps the continual contemplation of the character 
thus drawn of them, has contributed to fix it upon the 
nation; and thus to give reality to what at first may have 
been painted in a great measure from the imagination. 
Men are apt to acquire peculiarities that are continually 
ascribed to them. The common orders of English seem 
wonderfully captivated with tlie heait ideal which they 
have formed of John Bull, and endeavor to act up to the 



JOHF BULL. 275 

broad caricature that is perpetually before their eyes. Un- 
luckily, they sometimes make their boasted Bull-ism an 
apology for their prejudice orgrossness; and this I have es- 
pecially noticed among those home-bre'l and genuine sons 
of the soil who have never migrated beyond the sound of 
Bow Bells If one of these should be a little uncouth in 
speech, and apt to utter impertinent truths, he confesses 
that he is a real John Bull, and always speaks his mind. 
If he now and then flies into an unreasonable burst of pas- 
sion about trifles, he observes that John Bull is a choleric 
old blade; but then his passion is over in a moment, and he 
bears no malice. If he betrays a coarseness of taste, and 
an insensiblity to foreign refinement, he thanks Heaven 
for his ignorance — he is a plain John Bull, and has no 
relish for frippery and knicknacks. His very proneness to 
be gulled by strangers, and to pay extravagantly for absurd- 
icies, is excused under the plea of munificence — for John 
is always more generous than wise. 

Thus, under the name of John Bull, he will contrive to 
argue every fault into a merit, and will frankly convict 
himself of being the honestest fellow in existence. 

However little, therefore, the character may have suited 
in the first instance, it has gradually adapted itself to the 
nation, or rather they have adapted themselves to each 
othexjand a stranger who wishes to study English peculiar- 
ities, may gather much valuable information from the in- 
numerable portraits of John Bull, as exhibited in the win- 
dows of the caricature-shops. Still, however, he is one of 
those fertile humorists that are continually throwing out 
new portraits, and presenting different aspects from differ- 
ent points of view; and, often as he has been described, I 
cannot resist the temptation to give a slight sketch of him, 
such as he has met my eye. 

John Bull, to all appearance, is a plain downright matter- 
of-fact fellow, with much less of poetry about him than 
rich prose. There is little of romance in his nature, but a 
vast deal of strong natural feeling. He excels in humor 
more than in wit; is jolly rather than gay; melancholy 
rather than morose; can easily be moved into a sudden tear, 
or surprised into a broad laugh; but he loathes sentiment, 
and has no turn for light pleasantry. He is a boon com- 
panion, if you allow him to have his humor, and to talk 



276 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

about himself; aud ho will stand by a friend in a qnarrel^ 
with life and purse, however soundly he may be cudgelled. 

In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has a propensity 
to be somewhat too ready. He is a busy-minded personage, 
who thinks not merely for himself and family, but for all 
the country round, and is most generally supposed to bo 
everybody's champion. He is continually volunteering his 
services to settle his neighbors' affairs, and takes it in great 
dudgeon if they engage in any matter of consequence with- 
out askiug his advice; though ho seldom eugages in any 
friendly office of the kind without finishing by getting into 
a squabble with all parties, and then railing bitterly at their 
iuOTititude. He unluckily took lessons in his youth in the 
noble science of defence, and having accomplished himself 
in the use of his limbs and his weapons, and become a per- 
fect master at boxing and cudgel-play, he has had a troub- 
lesome life of it ever since. He cannot hear of a quarrel 
between the most distant of his neighbors, but he begins 
incontinently to fumble with the head of his cudgel, and 
consider whether his interest or honor does not require 
that he should meddle in the broil. Indeed, he has ex- 
tended his relations of pride and policy so completely over 
tlie whole country, that no event can take place without 
infringing some of his finely-spun rights and dignities. 
Crouched in his little domaiu, with these filaments stretch- 
ing forth in every direction, he is like some choleric, bot- 
tle-bellied old spider, wiio has woven his web over a whole 
chamber, so that a fly cannot buzz, nor a breeze blow, with- 
out startling his repose, and causing him to sally forth 
wrathfully from his den. 

Though really a good-hearted, good-tempered old fellow 
at bottom, yet he is singularly fond of being in the midst 
of contention. It is one of his peculiarities, liowever, that 
he only relishes the beginning of an affray; he alw^ays goes 
into a fight with alacrity, but comes out of it grumbling 
even when victorious; and though no one fights with more 
obstinacy to carry a contested point, yet when the battle is 
over and he comes to the reconciliation, he is so much taken 
up with the mere shaking of hands, that he is apt to let his 
antagonist pocket all that they have been quarrelling about. 
It is not, therefore, fighting that he ought so much to be on 
his guard against, as making friends. It is difficult to cud- 



JOHN BULL. 277 

gel him out of a farthing; but put him in a good humor, 
and you may bargain him out of all the money in his 
pocket. He is like a stout ship, which will weather the 
roughest storm uninjured, but roll its masts overboard 
in the succeeding calm. 

He is a little fond of playing the magnifico abroad; of 
pulling out a long purse; flinging his money bravely about 
at boxing-matches, horse-races, cock-fights, and carrying a 
high head among "gentlemen of the fancy;" but imme- 
diately after one of these fits of extravagance, he will be 
taken with violent qualms of economy; stop short at the 
most trivial expenditure; talk desperately of being ruined 
and brought upon the parish; and in such moods will not 
pay the smallest tradesman's bill without violent altercation. 
He is, in fact, the most punctual and discontented pay- 
master in the world; drawing his coin out of his breeches 
pocket with infinite reluctance; paying to the uttermost 
farthing, but accompanying every guinea witli a growl. 

With all his talk of economy, however, he is a bountiful 
provider, and a hospitable house-keeper. His economy is 
of a whimsical kind, its chief object being to devise how he 
may afford to be extravagant; for he will begrudge himself 
a beef-steak and a pint of port one day, that he may roast 
an ox whole, broucli a hogshead of ale, and treat all his 
neighbors on the next. 

His domestic establishment is enormously expensive: not 
so much from any great outward parade, as from the great 
consumption of solid beef and pudding; the vast number of 
followers he feeds and clothes; and his singular disposition 
to pay hugely for small services. He is a most kind and 
indulgent master, and, provided his servants humor his 
peculiarities, flatter his vanity a little now and then, and do 
not peculate grossly on him before his face, tliey may man- 
age him to perfection. Everything that lives on him seems 
to thrive and grow fat. liis house servants are well paid, 
and pampei-ed, and have little to do. His horses are sleek 
and lazy, and prance slowly before his state carriage; and 
his house-dogs sleep quietly about the door, and will hardly 
bark at a house-breaker. 

His family mansion is an old castellated manor-house, 
gray with age, and of a most venerable, though weather- 
beaten, appearance. It has been built npon uo regular 



278 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

plau, but is a vast accumulation of parts, erected in various 
tastes and ages. Tlie centre bears evident traces of Saxon 
architecture, and is as solid as ponderous stone and old 
English oak can make it. Like all the relics of that style, 
it is full of obscure passages, intricate mazes, and dusky 
chambers; and though these have been partially lighted up 
in modern days, yet there are many places where you must 
still grope in the dark. Additions have been made to the 
original edifice from time to time, and great alterations 
have taken place; towers and battlements have been erected 
during wars and tumults; wings built in time of peace, and 
out-houses, lodges, and offices, run up according to the 
whim or convenience of different generations, until it has 
become one of the most spacious, rambling tenements im- 
aginable. An entire wing is taken up with the family 
chapel; a reverend pile, that must once have been^exceed- 
ingly sumptuous, and, indeed, in spite of having been 
altei'ed and simplified at various periods, has still a look of 
solemn religious pomp. Its walls within are storied with 
the monuments of John's ancestors; and it is snugly fitted 
up with soft cushions and well-lined chairs, where such of 
his family as are inclined to church services, may doze com- 
fortably in the discharge of their duties. 

To keep up this chapel, has cost John much money; 
but he is staunch in his religion, and piqued in his zeal, 
from the circumstance that many dissenting chapels have 
been erected in his vicinity, and several of his neighbors, 
with whom he has had quarrels, are strong Papists. 

To do the duties of the chapel, he maintains, at a large 
expense, a pious and portly family chaplain. He is a most 
learned and decorous personage, and a truly well-bred 
Christian, who always backs the old gentleman in his opin- 
ions, winks discreetly at his little peccadilloes, rebukes 
the children when refractory, and is of great use in exhort- 
ing the tenants to read their bibles, say their prayers, and, 
above all, to pay their rents punctually, and without 
grumbling. 

The family apartments are in a very antiquated taste, 
somewhat heavy, and often inconvenient, but full of the 
solemn magnificence of former times; fitted up with rich, 
though faded tapestry, unwieldy furniture, and loads of 
massy gorgeous old plate. The vast fire-places, ample 



JOHN BULL. 2^9 

kitchens, extensive ceihirs, and siuiiptuous banqueting 
halls, — all speak of the roaring hospitality of days of yore, 
of which the modern festivity at the manor-house is but a 
shadow. There are, however, complete suites of rooms ap- 
parently deserted and time-worn; and towers and turrets 
that are tottering to decay; so that in high winds there 
is danger of their tumbling about the ears of the house- 
hold. 

John has frequently been advised to have the old edifice 
thoroughly overhauled, and to have some of the useless 
parts pulled down, and the others strengthened with their 
materials; but the old gentleman always grows testy on this 
subject. He swears the house is an excellent house — that 
it is tight and weather-proof, and not to be shaken by 
tempests — that it has stood for several hundred years, and 
therefore is not likely to tumble down now — that as to its 
being inconvenient, his family is accustomed to the incon- 
veniences, and would not be comfortable without them — 
that as to its unwieldy size and irregular construction, these 
result from its being the growth of centuries, and being 
improved by the wisdom of every generation — that an old 
family, like his, requires a large house to dwell in; new, 
upstart families may live in modern cottages and snug 
boxes, but an old English family should inhabit an old 
English manor-house. If you point out any part of the 
building as superfluous, he insists that it is material to the 
strength or decoration of the rest, and the harmony of 
the wnole; and swears that the parts are so built into each 
other, that if you pull down one you run the risk of having 
the whole about your ears. 

The secret of the matter is, that John has a great dispo- 
sition to protect and patronize. He thinks it indispensable 
to the dignity of an ancient and honorable family, to be 
bounteous in its appointments, and to be eaten up by de- 
pendants; and so, partly from pride, and partly from kind- 
lieartedness, he makes it a rule always to give shelter and 
maintenance to his superannuated servants. 

The consequence is, that, like many other venerable 
family establishments, his manor is encumbered by old re- 
tainers whom he cannot run off, and an old style which he 
cannot lay down. His mansion is like a great hospital of 
invalids, and, with all its magnitude, is not a whit too largo 



280 THE i^KET€H~BO()K. 

for its inhabitants. Not a nook or corner but is of use in 
housing some useless personage. Groups of veteran beef- 
eaters, gouty pensioners, unil retired lieroes of the buttery 
and the birder, are seen k)lling about its walls, crawling 
over its lawns, dozing under its trees, or sunning them- 
selves upon the benches at its doors. Every ottice and out- 
house is garrisoned by these supernumeraries and their 
families; for they are amazingly prolHic, and when they die 
oif, are sure to leave John a legacy of hungry mouths to be 
provided for. A nuittock cannot be struc;k against the 
most mouldering tumble-down tower, but out pops, from 
some cranny or loop-iiole, the gray pate of soTne superannu- 
ated hanger-on, wlio has lived at .lohn's expense all his 
life, and makes the most grievous outcry, at their pulling 
down the roof from over tlie head of a worn-out servant of 
the family. This is an appeal that Joini's honest heart 
never can withstand; so that a nuin who has faithfully eaten 
his beef aiui pudding all his life, is sure to be rewarded with 
a pipe and tankard in his old days. 

A great part of his park, also, is turned into paddocks, 
where his broken-down chargers are turned loose to graze 
undisturbed for the renniinder of their existence — a worthy 
example of grateful recollection, which if some of his 
neighbors were to imitate, would not be to their discredit. 
Indeed, it is one o." his great pleasures to point out these 
old steeds to his visitors, to dwell on their good (]ualities, 
extol their past services, and boast, with some little vain- 
glory, of the perilous adventures and hardy exploits 
through which they have carried him. 

He is given, however, to indulge his veneration for family 
usages, and family encumbrivnces, to a whimsical extent. 
His nninor is infested by gangs of gypsies; yet he will not 
suifor them to be driven olT, because they have infested the 
place time out of miiul, and been regular })oachers upon 
every generation of the family, lie will scarcely [)ermit a 
dry branch to be lopped from the great trees that surround 
the house, lest it should molest the rooks, that have bred 
there for centuries. Owls have taken possession of the 
dovecote; but they are hereditary owls, ami must not be dis- 
turbed. Swallows have nearly choked up every chimney 
with their nests; martins build in every frieze and cornice: 
crows flutter about the towers, and perch on every woy.ther- 



JUHJS BULL, j^jai 

cock; and old gray-hciuled ihLm niny bo soon in every <|U!irter 
of the house, ruiiiiinf;- in und out of tlieir holes undauntedly 
in broud daylight, la short, John has such a reverenee J'or 
everything that has been long in the family, that he will 
not hear even of abuses being reformed, because tliey are 
good old family abuses. 

All tliese whims and habits have coticurred wofully to 
di'ain the obi gentlc^num's i)ui-se; and as he })rides himself 
on punctuality in mf)ney matters, and wishes to maiidain 
his credit in the neighborhood, tiiey have caused him great 
perplexity in meciting his (iugagements. This, too, has 
been increased by the alL(!rcations and heartburnings which 
are continually taking [jhuie in Iiis family. His children 
have been brought u]) lodilTerent callings, and are of differ- 
ent ways of thiidiing; and as they have always been allowed 
to s})(!ak their minds freely, they do not fail to exercuse the 
privilege most clamorously in the j)res(!nt posture of his 
alTairs. Some stand up for tlu^ honor of tli(> race, and are 
clear that the old establishment should be kept up in all its 
state, whatever may be the cost; others, who are more pru- 
dent and considerate, (uitreat the old gentUinuui to retrench 
his ex{)enses, and to i)ut his whole svstein of housekeeping 
on a more moderate footing. He lias, indeed, at times, 
seemed inclined to listen to their opinions, but tlunr whole- 
some advice has been completely defeated by the obstrep- 
erous conduct of one of his sons. 'V\m is a noisy rattle- 
pated fellow, of rather low habits, who neglects his business 
to frequent ale-houses — is the orator of vilhige clubs, and a 
complete oracle among the poorest of his father's tenants. 
No sooner does he hear any of his brothers mention reform 
or retrenchment, than up Im jumps, takes tlui words out of 
their mouths, and roars out for an ovctrturn. When his 
tongue is once going, nothing can stop it. lie rants about 
the room; hectors tlw! old man about his K|)endthrift prac- 
tices; ridi(!ules his tastes and ])U)'suits; insists that he shall 
turn the old servants out of doors; give the broken-down 
horses to the hounds; send the fat cliMplain paciking and 
take a liel(l-i)reacher in his place — nay, that the whole fam- 
ily mansion shall be leveled with the ground, and a i)Iain 
one of bri(!k and mortar built in its phu;e, lie rails at every 
social entertainment and fa,mily festivity, and skulks away 
growling to the ale-houso whenever an equipage drives up 



282 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

to the door. Though constantly complaining of the empti- 
ness of his purse, yet he scruples not to spend all his pocket- 
money in these tavern convocations, and even runs up scores 
for the liquor over which he preaches about his father's ex- 
travagance. 

It may readily be imagined how little such thwarting 
agrees with the old cavalier's fiery temperament. He has 
become so irritable from repeated crossings, that the mere 
mention of retrenchment or reform is a signal for a brawl 
between him and the tavern oracle. As the latter is too 
sturdy and refractory for paternal discipline, having grown 
out of all fear of the cudgel, they have frequent scenes of 
wordy warfare, which at times run so high, that John is 
fain to call in the aid of his son Tom, an officer who has 
served abroad, but is at present living at home on half-pay. 
This last is sure to stand by the old gentleman, right or 
wrong; likes nothing so much as a racketing roistering life; 
and is ready, at a wink or nod, to out sabre, and flourish it 
over the orator's head, if he dares to array himself against 
paternal authority. 

These family dissensions, as usual, have got abroad, and 
are rare food for scandal in John's neighborhood. People 
begin to look wise, and shake their heads, whenever his 
affairs are mentioned. They all " hope that matters are 
not so bad with him as represented; but when a man's own 
children begin to rail at his extravagance, things must be 
badly managed. They understand he is mortgaged over 
head and ears, and is continually dabbling with money- 
lenders. He is certainly an open-handed old gentleman, 
but they fear he has lived too fast; indeed, they never 
knew any good come of this fondness for hunting, racing, 
revelling and prize-fighting. In short, Mr. Bull's estate is 
a very fine one, and has been in the family a long while; 
but for all that, they have known many finer estates come 
to the hammer." 

What is worst of all, is the effect which these pecuniary 
embarrassments and domestic feuds have had on the poor 
man himself. Instead of that jolly round corporation, and 
smug rosy face, which he used to present, he has of late be- 
come as shrivelled and shrunk as a frostbitten apple. His 
scarlet gold-laced waistcoat, which bellied out so bravely in 
those prosperous days when he sailed before the wind, now 



JOHN BVLL. 283 

hangs loosely about him like a mainsail in a calm. His 
leather breeches are all in folds and wrinkles, and appar- 
ently have much ado to hold up the boots that yawn on both 
sides of his once sturdy legs. 

Instead of strutting about, as formerly, with his three- 
cornered hat on one side; flourishing his cudgel, and 
oringing it down every moment with a hearty thump upon 
the ground; looking every one sturdily in the face, and 
trolling out a stave of a catch or a drinking song; he now 
goes about whistling thoughtfully to himself, with his head 
drooping down, his cudgel tucked under his arm, and his 
hands thrust to the bottom of his breeches pockets, which 
are evidently empty. 

Such is the plight of honest John Bull at present; yet 
for all this, the old fellow's spirit is as tall and as gallant aa 
ever. If you drop the least expression of sympathy or con- 
cern, he takes fire in an instant; swears that he is the 
richest and stoutest fellow in the country; talks of laying 
out lar^e sums to adorn his house or to buy another estate; 
and, with a valiant swagger and grasping of his cudgel, 
longs exceedingly to have another bout at quarterstaff. 

Though there may be something rather whimsical in all 
this, yet I confess I cannot look upon John's situation 
without strong feelings of interest. With all his odd 
humors and obstinate prejudices, he is a sterling-hearted 
old blade. He may not be so wonderfully fine a fellow as 
he thinks himself, but he is at least twice as good as his 
neighbors represent him. His virtues are all his own; all 
plain, homebred, and unaffected. His very faults smack 
of the raciuess of his good qualities. His extravagance 
savors of his generosity; his quarrelsomeness, of his 
courage; his credulity, of his open faith; his vanity, of his 
pride; and his bluntness, of his sincerity. They are all 
the redundancies of a rich and liberal character. He is 
like his old oak; rough without, but sound and solid 
within; whose bark abounds with excrescences in propor- 
tion to the growth and grandeur of the timber; and whose 
branches make a fearful groaning and murmuring in the 
least storm, from their very magnitude and luxuriance. 
There is something, too, in the appearance of his old 
family mansion, that is extremely poetical and picturesque; 
and, as lon§ as it can be rendered comfortably habitable, I 



284 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

should almost tremble to see it meddled with during the 
present conflict of tastes and opinions. Some of his ad- 
visers are no doubt good architects, that might be of ser- 
vice; but many, I fear, are mere levellers, who, when they 
had once got to work with their mattocks on the venerable 
edifice, would never stop until they had brought it to the 
ground, and perhaps buried themselves among the ruins. 
All that I wish, is, that John's present troubles may teach 
him more prudence in future; that he may cease to dis- 
tress his mind about other people's affairs; that he may 
give up the fruitless attempt to promote the good of 
iiis neighbors, and the peace and happiness of the world, 
by dint of the cudgel; that he may remain quietly at home; 
gradually get his house into repair; cultivate his rich 
estate according to his fancy; husband his income — if he 
thinks proper; bring his unruly children into order^f he 
can; renew the jovial scenes of ancient prosperity; and 
long enjoy, on his paternal lands, a green, an honorable, 
and a merry old age. 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 286 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 

May no wolf liowle: no screecli-owle stir 

A wing about thy sepulchre! 

No boysterous winds or stormes come hither, 

To starve or wither 
Thy soft sweet earth ! but, like a spring, 
Love keep it ever flourishing. 

Herrick. 

In the course of an excursion through one of the remote 
counties of England, I had struck into one of those cross- 
roads that lead through the more secluded parts of the 
country, and stopped one afternoon at a village, the situation 
of which was beautifully rural and retired. There was an 
air of primitive simplicity about its inhabitants, not to be 
found in the villages which lie on the great coach-roads. 
I determined to pass the night there, and having taken an 
early dinner, strolled out to enjoy the neighboring scenery. 

My ramble, as is usually the case with travellers, soon 
led me to the church, which stood at a little distance from 
the village. Indeed, it was an object of some curiosity, its 
old tower being completely overrun with ivy, so that only 
here and there a jutting buttress, an angle of gray wall, or 
a fantastically carved ornament peered through the verdant 
covering. It was a lovely evening. The early part of the 
day had been dark and showery, but in the afternoon it had 
cleared up; and though sullen clouds still hung overhead, 
yet there was a broad tract of golden sky in the west, from 
which the setting sun gleamed through the dripping leaves, 
and lit up all nature into a melancholy smile. It seemed 
like the parting hour of a good Christian, smiling on the 
sins and sorrows of the world, and giving, in the serenity 
of his decline, an assurance that he will rise again in 
glory. 

I had seated myself on a half-sunken tombstone, and was 
musing, as one is apt to do at this sober-thoughted hour, 
on past scenes, and early friends — on those who were dis' 



286 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

tant, and those who were dead — and indulging in that 
Ivind of melancholy fancying which has in it something 
sweeter even than pleasure. Every now and then, the 
stroke of a bell from the neighboring tower fell on my ear; 
its tones were in unison with the scene, and instead of jar- 
ring, chimed in with my feelings; and it was some time be- 
fore I recollected that it must be tolling the knell of some 
new tenant of the tomb. 

Presently I saw a funeral train moving across the village 
green; it wound slowly along a lane; was lost, and reap- 
peared through the breaks of the hedges, until it passed the 
place where I was sitting. The pall was supported by 
young girls, dressed in white; and another, about the age 
of seventeen, walked before, bearing a chaplet of white 
flowers, a token that the deceased was a young and unmar- 
ried female. The corpse was followed by the pai:ents. 
They were a venerable couple, of the better order of peas- 
antry. The father seemed to repress his feelings; but his 
fixed eye, contracted brow, and deeply-furrowed face, 
showed the struggle that was passing within. His wife 
hung on his arm, and wept aloud with the convulsive 
bursts of a mother's sorrow. 

I followed the funeral into the church. The bier was 
placed in the centre aisle, and the chaplet of white flowers, 
with a pair of Avhite gloves, were hung over the seat which 
the deceased had occupied. 

Every one knows the soul-subduing pathos of the funeral 
service; for wiio is so fortunate as never to have followed 
some one he has loved to the tomb? but when performed over 
the remains of innocence and beauty, thus laid low in the 
bloom of existence — what can be more affecting? At that 
simple, but most solemn consignment of the body to the 
grave — "Earth to earth — ashes to ashes — dust to dust!" 
the tears of the youthful companions of the deceased 
flowed unrestrained. The father still seemed to struggle 
with his feelings, and to comfort himself with the assur- 
ance, that the dead are blessed which die in the Lord; but 
the mother only thought of her child as a flower of the 
field, cut down and withered in the midst of its sweetness: 
she was like Rachel, "mourning over her children, and 
would not be comforted." 

On returning to the inn I learnt the whole story of the 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILTAGB. 287 

deceased. It was a simple one, and such as has often been 
told. She had been the beauty and pride of the vilhige. 
Her father had once been an opulent farmer, but was re- 
duced in circumstances. This was an only child, and 
brought up entirely at home, in the simplicity of rural life. 
She had been the pupil of the village pastor, the favorite 
lamb of his little flock. The good man watched over her ed- 
ucation with paternal care; it was limited, and suitable to 
the sphere in which she was to move; for he only sought to 
make her an ornament to her station in life, not to rai&e 
her above it. The tenderness and indulgence of her 
parents, and the exemption from all ordinary occupations, 
had fostered a natural grace and delicacy of character that 
accorded with the fragile loveliness of her form. She ap- 
peared like some tender plant of the garden, blooming 
accidentally amid the hardier natives of the fields. 

The superiority of her charms was felt and acknowledged 
by her companions, but without envy; for it was surpassed 
by the unassuming gentleness and winning kindness of her 
manners. It might be truly said of her: 

" This is the prettiest low-born lass, that ever 
Ran on the greensward: nothing she does or seems, 
But smacks of sometliing greater than herself; 
Too noble for this place." 

The village was one of those sequestered spots, which 
still retains some vestiges of old English customs. It had 
its rural festivals and holiday pastimes, and still kept up 
some faint observance of the once popular rites of May. 
These, indeed, had been promoted by its present pastor, 
who was a lover of old customs, and one of those simple 
Christians that think their mission fulfilled by promoting 
joy on earth and good will among mankind. Under his 
auspices the May-pole stood from year to year in the centre 
of the village green; on May-day it was decorated with gar- 
lands and streamers; and a queen or the lady of the May 
was appointed, as in former times, to preside at the sports, 
and distribute the prizes and rewards. The picturesque 
situation of the village, and the fancifulness of its rustic 
f6tes, would often attract the notice of casual visitors. 
Among these, on one May-day, was a young officer, whose 
regiment had been recently quartered in the neighborhood. 
Ue was charmed with the native taste that pervaded this 



288 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

village pageant; but above all, with the dawning loveliness 
of tlie queen of May. It was the village favorite, wlio was 
crowned with flowers, and blushing and smiling in all the 
beautiful confusion of girlish diffidence and delight. The 
artlessness of rural habits enabled him readily to make her 
acquaintance; he gradually won his way into her intimacy, 
and paid his court to her in that unthinking way in which 
young officers are too apt to trifle with rustic simplicity. 

There was nothing in his advances to startle or alarm. 
He never even talked of love; but there are modes of mak- 
ing it, more eloquent than language, and which convey it 
subtilely and irresistibly to the heart. The beam of the eye, 
the tone of the voice, the thousand tendernesses which 
emanate from every word, and look, and action — these form 
the true eloquence of love, and can always be felt and un- 
derstood, but never described. Can we wonder that they 
should readily win a heart, young, guileless, and suscepti- 
ble? As to lier, she loved almost unconsciously; she 
scarcely inquired what was the growing passion that was 
absorbing every thought and feeling, or what were to be its 
consequences. She, indeed, looked not to the future. 
When present, his looks and words occupied her whole 
attention; when absent, she thought but of what had passed 
at their recent interview. She would wander with him 
through the green lanes and rural scenes of the vicinity. 
He taught her to see new beauties in nature; he talked in 
the language of polite and cultivated life, and breathed 
into her ear the witcheries of romance and poetry. 

Perhaps there could not have been a passion, between the 
sexes, more pure than this innocent girl's. The gallant 
figure of her youthful admirer, and the splendor of his 
military attire, might at first have charmed her eye; but it 
was not these that had captivated her heart. Her attach- 
ment had something in it of idolatry; she looked up to him 
as to a being of a superior order. She felt in his society 
the enthusiam of a mind naturally delicate and poetical, 
and now first awakened to a keen perception of the beauti- 
ful and grand. Of the sordid distinctions of rank and 
fortune, she thought nothing; it was the difference of in- 
tellect, of demeanor, of manners, from those of the rustic 
society to which she had been accustomed, that elevated 
him in her opinion. She would listen to him with charmed 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 289 

ear and downcast look of mute delight, and her cheek 
would mantle witli enthusiasm; or if ever she ventured a 
shy glance of timid admiration, it was as quickly with- 
driiwu, and she would sigh and blush at the idea of her 
compaiative unworthiness. 

Tier lover was equally impassioned; but his passion was 
mingled with feelings of a coarser nature. He had begun 
the connection in levity; for he had often heard his brother 
ofhcers boast of their village conquests, and thought some 
triumph of the kind necessary to his reputation as a man 
of spirit. But he was too full of youthful fervor. His 
heart had not yet been rendered sufficiently cold and self- 
ish by a wandering and a dissipated life; it caught firo 
from the very flame it sought to kindle; and before he was 
aware of the nature of his situation, he became really in 
love. 

What was he to do? There were the old obstacles which 
so incessantly occur in these heedless attachments. His 
rank in life— the prejudices of titled connections — his de- 
pendence upon a proud and unyielding father — all forbade 
him to think of matrimony: — but when he looked down 
upon this innocent being, so tender and confiding, there 
was a purity in her manners, a blamelessness in her life, 
and a bewitching modesty in her looks, that awed down 
every licentious feeling. In vain did he try to fortify him- 
self, by a thousand heartless examples of men of fashion, 
and to chill the glow of generous sentiment, with that cold 
derisive levity with which he had heard them talk of female 
virtue; whenever he came into her presence, she was still 
surrounded by that mysterious, but impassive charm of 
virgin purity, in whose hollowed sphere no guilty thought 
can live. 

The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment to repair 
to the continent, completed the confusion of his mind. He 
remained for a short time in a state of the most painful 
irresolution; he hesitated to communicate the tidings, until 
the day for marching was at hand, when he gave her the 
intelligence in the course of an evening ramble. 

The idea of parting had never before occurred to her. 
It broke in at once upon her dream of felicity; she looked 
upon it as a sudden and insurmountable evil, and \vei)t 
with the guileless simplicity of^ a child. He drew her to 



290 . THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

his bosom and kissed the tears from her soft cheek, nor 
did he meet with a repulse, for there are moments of 
mingled sorrow and tenderness, which hallow the caresses 
of affection. He was naturally impetuous, and the sight 
of beauty apjiarently yielding in his arms, the confidence of 
his power over her, and the dread of losing her forever, all 
conspired to overwhelm his better feelings— he ventured to 
propose that she should leave her home, and be the com- 
panion of his fortunes. 

He was quite a novice in seduction, and blushed and fal- 
tered at his own baseness; but, so innocent of mind was his 
intended victim, that she was at first at a loss to compre- 
hend his meaning;— and why she should leave her native 
village, and the humble roof of her parents. When at last 
the nature of his pro])osals Hashed upon her pure mind, 
the effect was witheiing. She did not weep— she did not 
break forth into i-eproaches — she said not a woi'd — bfrt. she 
shrunk back aghast as from a vijier, gave him a look of 
anguish that pierced to his very soul, and clasping her 
hands in agony, fled, as if for refuge, to her father's cottage. 

The officer retired, confounded, humiliated, and repent- 
ant. It is uncertain what might have been the result of 
the conflict of his feelings, had not his thoughts been 
diverted by the bustle of departure. New scenes, new 
pleasures, and new companions, soon dissipated his self- 
reproach, and stifled his tenderness. Yet, amidst the 
stir of camps, the revelries of garrisons, the array of armies, 
and even the din of battles, his thoughts would sometimes 
steal back to the scenes of rural quiet and village simplic- 
ity — the white cottage — the footpath along the silver brook 
and up the hawthorn hedge, and the little village maid 
loitering along it, leaning on his arm and listening to him 
with eyes beaming with unconscious afl'ection. 

The shock which the ]ioor girl had received in the de- 
struction of all her ideal world, had indeed been cruel. 
Faintings and hysterics had at first shaken her tender 
frame, and were succeeded by a settled and pining melan- 
choly. She had beheld from her window the march of de- 
parting troops. She had seen her faithless lover borne oft", 
as if in triumph, amidst the sound of drum and trumpet, 
and the pomp of arms. She strained a last aching gaze 
after him, as the morning sun glittered about his figure. 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 291 

and his plume waved in the breeze; he passed away like a 
bright vision from her sight, and left her all in darkness. 

It would be trite to dwell on the particulars of her after- 
story. It was, like other tales of love, melancholy. She 
avoided society, and wandered out alone in the walks she 
had most frequented with her lover. She sought, like the 
stricken deer, to weep in silence and loneliness, and brood 
over the barbed sorrow that rankled in her soul. Some- 
times she would be seen late of an evening sitting in the 
porch of the village church; and the milk-maids, returning 
from the fields, would now and then overhear her singing 
some plaintive ditty in the hawthorn walk. She became 
fervent in her devotion at church; and as the old people 
saw her approach, so wasted away, yet with a hectic bloom, 
and that hallowed air which melancholy diffuses round 
the form, they would make way for her, as for something 
spiritual, and, looking after her, would shake their heads 
in gloomy foreboding. 

She felt a conviction that she was hastening to the tomb, 
but looked forward to it as a place of rest. The silver 
cord that had bound her to existence was loosed, and there 
seemed to be no more pleasure under the sun. If ever her 
gentle bosom had entertained resentment against her lover, 
it was extinguished. She was incapable of angry passions, 
and in a moment of saddened tenderness she penned him a 
farewell letter. It was couched in the simplest language, 
but touching from its very simplicity. She told him that she 
was dying, and did not conceal from him that his conduct 
was the cause. She even depicted the sufferings which she 
had experienced; but concluded with saying that she could 
not die in peace until she had sent him her forgiveness 
and her blessing. 

By degress her strength declined, and she could no longer 
leave the cottage. She could only totter to the window, 
where, propped up in her chair, it was her enjoyment to 
sit all day and look out upon the landscape. Still she 
uttered no complaint, nor imparted to anyone the malady 
that was preying on her heart. She never even mentioned 
her lover^s name, but would lay her head on her mother's 
bosom and weep in silence. Her poor parents hung in 
mute anxiety over this fading blossom of their hopes, still 
flattering themselves that it might again revive to fresh- 



293 THE SKETOH-BOOE. 

ness, and that the bright unearthly bloom which sometimes 
flushed her cheek, might be the promise of returning 
health. 

In this way she was seated between them one Sunday 
afternoon; her hands were clasped in theirs, the lattice was 
thrown open, and the soft air that stole in brought with it 
the fragrance of the clustering honeysuckle, which her own 
hands had trained round the window. 

Her father had just been reading a chapter in the Bible; 
it spoke of the vanity of worldly things, and the joys of 
heaven; it seemed to have diffused comfort and serenity 
through her bosom. Her eye was fixed on the distant vil- 
lage church — the bell had tolled for evening service — the 
last villager was lagging into the porch — and everything had 
sunk into that hallowed stillness peculiar to the day of rest. 
Her parents were gazing on her with yearning ^earts. 
Sickness and sorrow, which pass so roughly over some 
faces, had given to hers the expression of a seraph's, A 
tear trembled in her soft blue eye. — Was she thinking of 
her faithless lover.' — or were her thoughts wandering to 
that distant churchyard, into whose bosom she might soon 
be gathered? 

Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard — a horseman gal- 
loped to the cottage — he dismounted before the window — 
the poor girl gave a faint exclamation, and sunk back in 
her chair; — it was her repentant lover! He rushed into the 
house, and flew to clasp her to his bosom; but her wasted 
form — her death-like countenance — so wan, yet so lovely in 
its desolation — smote him t the soul, and he threw himself 
in an agony at her feet. She was too faint to rise — she at- 
tempted to extend her trembling hand — her lips moved as 
if she spoke, but no word was articulated — she looked down 
upon him with a smile of unutterable tenderness, and closed 
her eyes forever! 

Such are the particulars which I gathered of this village 
story. They are but scanty, and I am conscious have but 
little novelty to recommend them. In the present rage 
also for strange incident and high-seasoned narrative, they 
may appear trite and insignificant, but they interested me 
strongly at the time; and, taken in connection with the 
affecting ceremony which I hud just witnessed, left a deeper 
impression on my mind than any circumstances of a more 



THE BRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 293 

striking nature. I have passed through the place since, 
and visited the church again from a bettor motive than 
mere curiosity. It was a wintry evening ; the trees were 
stripped of their foliage ; the churchyard looked naked and 
mournful, and the wind rustled coldly through the grass 
Evergreens, however, liad been planted about the grave ot 
the village favorite, and osiers were hent over it to keep 
the turf uninjured. Tlie church door was open, and 1 
stopped in.— There hung the chaplet of flowers and the 
gloves, as on the day of the funeral : the flowers were with- 
ered it is true, but care seemed to have been taken that no 
dust shouid soil their whiteness. I have seen manv monu- 
ments, where art has exhausted its powers to awaken the 
sympathv of the spectator ; but T have met with none that 
spoke more tonchingly to my heart than this simple, but 
delicate memento of departed innocence. 



394 TUR SiCiSTCH-BOOK, 



THE ANGLER. 

This day dame Nature seem'd in love. 

The lusty sap began to move, 

Fresh juice did stir th' embraciug vines. 

And birds had drawn their valentines. 

The jealous trout that low did lie, 

Rose at a well dissembled dy. 

There stood my friend, with patient skill. 

Attending of his trembling quill. 

Sir H. WoTtmj. 

It is said that many an unlucky urchin is induced to run 
away from his family, and betake himself to seafaring life, 
from reading the history of Robinson Crusoe; and I suspect 
that, in like manner, many of those worthy gentlemen, 
who are given to haunt the sides of pastoral streams with 
angle-rods in hand, may trace the origin of their passion to 
the seductive pages of honest Izaak Walton. I recollect 
studying his "Complete Angler" several years since, in 
company with a knot of friends in America, and, moreover, 
that we were all completely bitten with the angling mania. 
It was early in the year; but as soon as the weather Avas 
auspicious, and the spring began to melt into the verge 
of summer, we took rod in hand and sallied into the coun- 
try, as stark mad as was ever Don Quixote from reading 
books of chivalry. 

One of our party had equalled the Don in the fullness of 
his equipments; being attired cap-a-pie for the enterprise. 
He wore a broad-skirted fustian coat perplexed with half a 
liundred pockets; a pair of stout shoes, and leathern gaiters; 
a basket slung on one side for fish; a patent rod; a landing 
net, and a score of other inconveniences only to be found 
in the true angler's armory. Thus harnessed for the field, 
he was as great a master of stare and wonderment among 
the country folk, who had never seen a real angler, as was 
the steel-clad hero of La Mancha among the goatherds of 
the Sierra Morena. 



THE ANGLER. 295 

Our first essay was along a mountain brook, among the 
highlands of the Hudson — a most unfortunate place for the 
execution of those piscatory tactics which had boen invented 
along the velvet margins of quiet English rivulets. It was 
one of those wild streams that lavish, among our romantic 
solitudes, unheeded beauties, enough to till the sketch-book 
of a hunter of the picturesque. Sometimes it would leap 
down rocky shelves, making small cascades, over which the 
trees threw their broad balancing sprays; and long nameless 
Aveeds hung in fringes from the impending banks, dripping 
with diamond drops. Sometimes it would brawl and fret 
along a ravine in the matted shade of a forest, filling it with 
murmurs; and after this termagant career, would steal forth 
into open day with the most placid demure face imaginable; 
as T have seen some pestilent shrew of a housewife, after 
filling her home with uproar and ill-humor, come dimpling 
out of doors, swimming, aiulcurtseyhigand smiling upon all 
the world. 

How smoothly would this vagrant brook glide, at such 
times, through some bosom of green meadow land, among 
the mountains; where the quiet was only interrupted by 
the occasional tinkling of a bell fi'om the lazy cattle among 
the clover, or the sound of a woodcutter's axe from the 
neighboring forest! 

For my part, 1 was always a bungler at all kinds of sport 
that required either patience or adroitness, and had not 
angled above half an hour, before I had completely " satisfied 
the sentiment," and convinced myself of the truth of Izaak 
Walton^s opinion, that angling is something like poetry — a 
man must be born to it. I hooked myself instead of the 
fish; tangled my line in every tree; lost my bait; broke my 
rod; until I gave up the attempt in despair, and passed the 
day under the trees, reading old Izaak; satisfied that it was 
his fascinating vein of honest simplicity and rural feeling 
that had bewitched me, and not the passion for angling. 
My companions, however, were more persevering in their 
dehision. I have them at tliis moment before my eyes, 
stealing along the border of the brook, where it lay open to 
the day, or was merely fringed by shrubs and bushes. I 
see the bittern rising with hollow scream, as they break in 
upon his rarely-invaded haunt; the kingfisher watching 
them suspiciously from his dry tree that overhangs the deep 



^96 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

black mill-pond, in the gorge of the hills; the tortoise let' 
ting himself slip sideways from off the stone or log on which 
he is sunning himself; and the panic-struck frog plumping 
in headlong as they approach, and spreading an alarm 
throughout the watery world around, 

I recollect, also, that, after toiling and watching and 
creeping about for the greater part of a day, with scarcely 
any success, in spite of all our admirable apparatus, a lub- 
berly country urchin came down from the hills, with a rod 
made from a branch of a tree, a few yards of twine, and, 
as heaven shall help me! I believe a crooked pin for a 
hook, baited with a vile earth-worm — and in half an 
hour caught more fish than we had nibbles throughout 
tlie day. 

But above all, I recollect the ''good, honest, wholesome, 
hungry" repast, which we made under the beech-tree just 
by a spring of pure sweet water, that stole out of the side 
of a hill; and how, when it was over, one of the party read 
old Izaak Walton's scene with the milk-maid, while I lay 
on the grass and built castles in a bright pile of clouds, 
nntil 1 fell asleep. All this may appear like meie egotism; 
yet I cannot refrain from uttering these recollections which 
are passing like a strain of music over my mind, and have 
been called up by an agreeable scene which I witnessed not 
long since. 

In a morning's stroll along the banks of the Alun, a 
beautiful little stream which flows down from the Welsh 
hills and throws itself into the Dee, my attention was at- 
tracted to a group seated on the margin. On approaching, 
I found it to consist of a veteran angler and two rustic dis- 
ciples. The former was an old fellow with a wooden leg, 
with clothes very much but very carefully patched, betok- 
ening poverty, honestly come by, and decently maintained. 
His face bore the marks of former storms, but present fair 
weather; its furrows had been worn into an habitual smile; 
his iron-gray locks hung about his ears, and he had alto- 
gether the good-humored air of a constitutional philosopher,, 
who was disposed to take the world as it went. One of his 
companions was a ragged wight, with the skulking look of 
an ardent poacher, and I'll warrant could find his way to 
any gentleman's fish-pond in the neighborhood in the 
darkest night. The other was a tall, awkward, country lad, 



THE ANGLER. 297 

with a loimgiug gait, aud apparently somewhat of a rustic 
beau. The old man was busied examining the maw of a 
trout which he had just killed, to discover by its contents 
what insects were seasonable for bait; and was lecturing on 
the subject to his companions, who appeared to listen with 
infinite deference. I have a kind feeling toward all 
"brothers of the angle," ever since I read Izaak Walton. 
They are men, he affirms, of a " mild, sweet, and peaceable 
spirit;" and my esteem for them has been increased since I 
met with an old " Tretyse of fishing with the Angle," in 
which are set forth many of the maxims of their inoffensive 
fraternity. "Take goode hede," sayth this honest littte 
tretyse, "that in going about your disjjortes ye open no 
man's gates but that ye shet them again. Also ye shall not 
use this foresaid crafti disport for no covetousness to the in- 
creasing and sparing of your money only, but principally 
for your solace and to cause the helth of your body and 
specyally of your soule."* 

I thought that T could perceive in the veteran angler be- 
fore me an exemplification of what I had read; and there 
was a cheerful contentedness in his looks, that quite drew 
me towards him. I could not but remark the gallant man- 
ner in which he stumped from one part of the brook to 
another; waving his rod in the air, to keep the line from 
dragging on the ground, or catching among the bushes; 
and the adroitness with which he would throw his fly to 
any particular place; sometimes skimming it lightly along 
a little rapid; sometimes casting it into one of those dark 
holes made by a twisted root or overhanging bank, in 
which the large trout are apt to lurk. In the meanwhile, 
he was giving instructions to his two disciples; showing 
them the manner in which they should handle their rods, 
fix their flies, and play them along the surface of the stream. 
The scene brought to my mind the instructions of the sage 
Piscator to his scholar. The country around was of that 
pastoral kind which Walton is fond of describing. It was 
a part of the great plain of Cheshire, close by the beautiful 

* Fi'om this same treatise, it would appear that ansling' is a more industri- 
ous and devout employment than it is generally considered. " For when ye 
purpose to go on your disportes in fishynfje, ye will not desyre greatlye many 
persons with you, which might let you of your game. And that ye may serve 
God devoutly in sayinjre effectually your customable prayers. And thus doy- 
Ing, ye shall eschew and also avoyde many vices, as ydleuess, which is a pri>'- 



ipaii 



cause toiaduoe man to many other vices, as it is right well known." 



298 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

vale of Gessford, and just where the iuferior Welsh hills 
begin to swell up from among fresh-smelling meadows. 
The day, too, like that recorded in his work, was mild and 
sunshiny; with now and then a soft dropping shower, that 
Bowed the whole earth Avith diamonds. 

I soon fell into conversation with the old angler, and 
was so much entertained, that, under pretext of receiving 
instructions in his art, 1 kept company with him almost the 
whole day; wandering along the banks of the stream, and 
listening to his talk. He was very communicative, having 
all the easy garrulity of cheerful old age, and I fancy was 
a little flattered by having an opportunity of display- 
ing his piscatory lore; for who does not like now and then 
\o play the sage? 

He had been much of a rambler in his day, and had 
passed some years of his youth in America, jjarticulaa-ly in 
Savannah, where he had entered into trade, and had been 
ruined by the indiscretion of a partner. He had after- 
wards experienced many ups and downs in life, until he 
got into the navy, where liis leg was carried away by a can- 
non-ball, at the battle of Camperdown. This was the only 
stroke of real good fortune he had ever experienced, for it 
got him a pension, whicli, together with some small pater- 
nal property, brought him in a revenue of nearly forty 
pounds. On this he retired to his native village, where he 
lived quietly and independently, and devoted the remainder 
of his life to the ^*^ noble art of angling." 

I found that he had read Izaak Walton attentively, and 
he seemed to have imbibed all his simple frankness and 
prevalent good humor. Though he had been sorely buffeted 
about the world, he was satisfied that the world, in itself, 
was good and beautiful. Though he had been as roughly 
used in different countries as a poor sheep that is fleeced by 
every hedge and thicket, yet he spoke of every nation with 
candor and kindness, appearing to look only on the good 
side of things; and above all, he was almost the only man 
I had ever met with who had been an unfortunate advent- 
urer in America, and had honesty and magnanimity enough 
to take the fault to his own door, and not to curse the 
country. 

The lad that was receiving his instructions I learnt was 
the son and heir apparent of a fat old widow, who kept the 



TBE ANGLER. ^99 

village iun, and of course a youth of some expectation, and 
much courted by the idle, gentleman-like personages of the 
place. In taking him under his care, therefore, the old 
man had probably an eye to a privileged corner in the tap- 
room, and an occasional cup of cheerful ale free of expense. 

There is certainly something in angling, if we could for- 
get, which anglers are apt to do, the cruelties and tortures 
inflicted on worms and insects, that tends to produce a gen- 
tleness of spirit, and a pure serenity of mind. As the Eng- 
lish are methodical even in their recreations, and are the 
most scientific of sportsmen, it has been reduced among 
them to perfect rule and system. Indeed, it is an amuse- 
ment peculiarly adapted to the mild and cultivated scenery 
of England, where every roughness has been softened away 
from the landscape. It is delightful to saunter along those 
limpid streams which wander, like veins of silver, through 
the bosom of this beautiful country; leading one through 
a diversity of small home scenery; sometimes winding 
through ornamented grounds; sometimes brimming along 
through rich pasturage, where the fresh green is mingled 
with sweet-smelling flowers; sometimes venturing in sight 
of villages and hamlets; and then runnning capriciously 
away into shady retirements. The sweetness and serenity 
of nature, and the quiet watchfulness of the sport, gradu- 
ally bring on pleasant fits of musing; which are now and 
then agreeably interrupted by the song of a bird; the 
distant whistle of the peasant; or perhaps tlie vagary of 
some fish, leaping out of the still water, and skimming 
transiently about its glassy surface. "^ When I would be- 
get content," says Izaak Walton, "and increase confidence 
in the power and wisdom and providence of Almighty God, 
I will walk the meadows by some gliding stream, and there 
contemplate the lilies tliat take no care, and those very 
many other little living creatures that are not only created, 
but, fed, (man knows not how) by the goodness of the God 
of nature, and therefore trust in him." 

1 cannot forbear to give another quotation from one of 
those ancient champions of angling which breathes the 
same innocent and happy spirit: 

Let me live harmlessly, and near the brink 
Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place: 



TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Where I may see my quill, or cork down sink. 
With eager bite of Pike, or Blealc, or Dace, 

And on the world and my creator think; 

While some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace: 

And others spend their time in base excess 
Of wine, or worse, in war or wantonness. 

Let them that will, these pastimes still pursue, 
And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill, 

So I the fields and meadows green may view, 
And daily by fresh rivers walk at will 

Among the daisies and the violets blue. 
Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil. * 

On parting with the old angler, I inquired after his 
place of abode, and happening to be in the neighborhood 
of the Tillage a few evenings afterwards, I had the curiosity 
to seek him out. 1 found him living in a small cottage, con- 
taining only one room, but a perfect curiosity in its m^ethod. 
and arrangement. It was on the skirts of the village, on 
a green bank a little back from the road, with a small 
garden in front, stocked with kitchen-herbs, and adorned 
with a few flowers. The whole front of the cottage was 
overrun with a honeysuckle. On the top was a ship for a 
weathercock. The interior was fitted up in a truly nautical 
style, his ideas of comfort and convenience having been ac- 
quired on the berth-deck of a man-of-war. A hammock 
was slung from the ceiling, which in the day-time was 
lashed up so as to take but little room. From the centre 
of the chamber hung a model of a ship, of his own work- 
manship. Two or three chairs, a table, and a large sea- 
chest, formed the principal movables. About the walls 
were stuck up naval ballads, such as Admiral Hosier's 
Ghost, All in the Downs, and Tom Bowling, intermingled 
with pictures of sea-fights, among which the battle of 
Camperdown held a distinguished phice. The mantel- 
piece was decorated with sea-shells; over which hung a 
quadrant, flanked by two wood-cuts of most bitter-looking 
naval commanders. His implements for angling were 
carefully disposed on nails and hooks about the room. On 
a shelf was arranged his library, containing a work on an- 
gling, much worn; a bible covered with canvas; an odd vol- 
ume or two of voyages; a nautical almanac; and a book of 
songs. 

♦ J. Dayors. 



THE ANGLER, 301 

His family consisted of a large black cat with one eye, 
and a parrot whicli he had caught and tamed, and edu- 
cated himself, in the course of one of his voyages; and 
wliich uttered a variety of sea plirases, with the hoarse rat- 
tling tone of a veteran boatswain. The establishment re- 
minded me of that of the renowned Robinson Crusoe; it 
was kept in neat order, everything being "stowed away" 
with the regularity of a ship of war; and he inforjned me 
that he "scoured the deck every morning, and swept it be- 
tween meals." 

I found him seated on a bench before the door, smoking 
his pipe in the soft evening sunshine. His cat was purring 
soberly on the threshold, and his parrot describing some 
strange evolutions in an iron ring, that swung in the centre 
of his cage. He had been angling all day, and gave me a 
history of his sport with as much minuteness as a general 
would talk over a campaign; being particularly animated 
in regulating the manner in which he had taken a largo 
trout, which had coiupletely tasked all his skill and wari- 
ness, and which he had sent as a trophy to mine hostess of 
tlie inn. 

How comforting it is to see a cheerful and contented old 
age; and to behold a poor fellow, like this, after being 
ten)pest-tost through life, safely moored in a snug and quiet 
harbor in the evening of his days! His happiness, however, 
sprung from within himself, and was indei)endent of ex- 
ternal circumstances; for he had that inexhaustible good- 
nature, which is the most precious gift of Heaven; spread- 
ing itself like oil over the troubled sea of thought, and 
keeping the mind smooth and equable in the roughest 
weather. 

On inquiring farther about him, I learnt that he was 
a universal favorite in the village, and the oracle of the 
tan-room; where he delighted the rustics with his songs, 
and, like 8inbad, astonished them with his stories of 
strange lands, and shipwrecks, and sea-fights. He was 
much noticed too by gentlemen sportsmen of the neigh- 
borhood; had taught several of them the art of angling; 
and was a privileged visitor to their kitchens. The whole 
tenor of his life was quiet and inoffensive, being principally 
passed about tlie neighboring streams, when the weather 
and season were favorable; and at other times he employed. 



302 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

himself at home, preparing his fishing tackle for the next 
campaign, or manufacturing rods, nets and flics, for his 
patrons and pupils among the gentry. 

He was a regular attendant at church on Sundays, though 
he generally fell asleeji during the sermon. He had made 
it his particular request that Avhcn he died he should be 
buried in a green spot, which he could see from his seat in 
church, and which he had marked out ever since he was a 
boy, and had thought of when far from home on the raging 
sea, in danger of being food for the fishes — it was the spot 
where his father and mother had been buried. 

I have done, for I fear that my reader is growing weary; 
but I could not refrain from drawing the picture of this 
worthy " brother of the angle;" who has made me more 
than ever in love with the theory, though I fear I shall 
never be adroit in the practice of his art; and I will con- 
clude this rambling sketch in the words of honest Izaak 
Walton, by craving the blessing of St. Peter's master upon 
my reader, "and upon all that are true lovers of virtue; 
and dare trust in his providence; and be quiet; and go a 
angling.^' 



TEE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 30S 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

(found among the papeks of the late diedrich 
knickerbocker.) 

A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, 
Of dreams that wave before the half- shut eye; 
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass. 
Forever flushing round a summer sky. 

Cadle of Luloleiice. 

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which in- 
dent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expan- 
sion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navi- 
gators the Tappan Zee, and where tliey always prudently 
shortened sail, and implored the protection of St. Nicholas 
when they crossed, there lies a small market town or rural 
port, which by some is called Greensburgh, but which is 
more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry 
Town. This name was given it, we are told, in former 
days, by the good housewives of the adjacent country, 
from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger 
about the village tavern on market days. Be that as it may, 
I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it, for the 
sake of being precise and authentic. Not ar from this 
village, perhaps about three miles, there is a little valley or 
rather lap of land among high hills, which is one of the 
quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides 
through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose; 
and the occasional whistle of a quail, or tapping of a wood- 
pecker, is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon 
the uniform tranquillity. 

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in 
squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that 
shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at 
noon-time, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was 
startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the sabbath 



304 TSE SKETCH-BOOK. 

stillness around, and was prolonged and reverberated by 
the angry echoes. If over I should wish for a retread 
whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, 
and dream quietly away tlio remnant of a troubled life, I 
know of none more promising than this little valley. 

From tlie listless repose of the place, and the peculiar 
character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the 
original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been 
known by the name of Sleepy Hollow, and its rustic lads 
are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the 
neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems 
to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. 
Some say that the place was bewitched by a high German 
doctor, during the early days of the settlement; others, that 
an old Indian cliief, tlie prophet or wizard of his tribe, held 
his powwows there before the country wsis discovered by 
Master Hendrick Huilson. Certain it is the place stiTl con- 
tinues under the sway of some witching power, that holds 
a spell over tlie minds of the good people, causing them to 
walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of 
marvellous beliefs; are subject to trances and visions, and 
frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in 
the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, 
haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and 
meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any 
other part of the country, and the nightmare, with her 
whole nine fold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her 
gambols. 

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted 
region, and seems to be comnuinder-in-chief of all the 
powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horse- 
back without a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of 
a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away by a 
cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during the revolution- 
ary war, and who is ever and anon seen by the country 
folk, hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if on the 
wind. His haunts are not confined to the valley, but ex- 
tend at times to the adjacent roads, and especially to the 
vicinity of a church that is at no great distance. Indeed, 
certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who 
have been careful in collccliug and collating the floating 
facts concerning this spectre, allege, that the body of the 



THi: LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 305 

trooper having beun in the churchyard, the ghost rides 
forth to the scene of the battle in niglitly quest of his liead, 
and that the rushing speed withwliich he sometimes passes 
along tJic hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to liis 
being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the church- 
yard before day-break. 

Such is the general purport of this legendary supersti- 
tion, which has furnished materials for many a wild story 
in that region of shadows; and the spectre is known at all 
the country firesides, by the name of the Headless Horse- 
man of Sleepy Hollow. 

It is remarkable, that the visionary propensity I have 
mentioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the 
valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by everyone who resides 
there for a time. However wide awake they may have 
been before they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, 
in a little time, to inhale the witching influence of the air, 
and begin to grow imaginative — to dream dreams, and see 
apparitions. 

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud; for it 
is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there 
embosomed in the great State of New York, that popula- 
tion, manners, and customs remain fixed, while the great 
torrent of migration and improvement, which is making 
such incessant changes in other parts of this restless coun- 
try, sweeps by them unobserved. They are like those little 
uooks of still water, which border a rapid stream, where we 
may see the straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor, or 
slowly revolving in their mimic harbor, undisturbed by the 
rush of the passing current. Though many years have 
elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, 
yet I question whether I should not find the same trees and 
the same families vegetating in its sheltered bosom. 

In this bj'-place of nature there abode, in a remote pe- 
}-iod of American history, that is to say, some thirty years 
vsince, a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane, who 
sojourned, or, as he expressed it, ''tarried," in Sleepy Hol- 
low, for the purpose of instructing the children of the vicin- 
ity. He was a native of Connecticut, a State which 
supplies the Union with pioneers for the mind as well as 
for the forest, and sends i'orth yoarly its legions of frontier 
woodmen and country schoolmasters. The cognomen of 



S06 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall, but 
exceedingh' lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and 
legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that 
might have served for shovels, and his whole frame most 
loosely hung together. His head was small, and flat at top, 
with huge ears, large green glass}' eyes, and a long snipe 
nose, so that it looked like a weathercock perched upon his 
spindle neck, to tell which way the wind blew. To see him 
striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day, with his 
clothes bagging and fluttering about him, one might have 
mistaken him for tlie genius of famine descending upon the 
earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield. 

His school-house was a low building of one large room, 
rudely constructed of logs; the windows partly glazed, and 
partly patched with leafs of copy-books. It was most in- 
geniously secured at vacant hours, by a withe twisted in the 
handle of the door, and stakes set against the window^hut- 
ters; so that though a thief might get in with perfect 
ease, he would find some embarrassment in getting out; — 
an idea most probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van 
Houten, from the mystery of an eelpot. The school-house 
stood in a rather lonel}^ but pleasant situation, just at the 
foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by, and a 
formidable birch-tree growing at one end of it. From 
hence the low murmur of his pupils' voices, conning over 
their lessons, might be heard of a drowsy summer's day, like 
the hum of a beehive; interrupted now and then by the au- 
thoritative voice of the master, in the tone of menace or 
command; or, peradventure, by the appalling sound of the 
birch, as he urged some tard}' loiterer along the flowery 
path of knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious 
man, that ever bore in mind the golden maxim, " spare the 
rod and spoil the child." Ichabod Crane's scholars cer- 
tainly were not spoiled. 

I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one 
of those cruel potentates of the school, who joy in the 
smart of their subjects; on the contrary, he administered 
justice with discrimination rather than severity; taking the 
burden off the backs of the weak, and laying it on those of 
the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that winced at the 
least llourisii of the rod, was passed by with iudulgeuce; 
but the claims of justice were satisfied by inflicting a double 



THE L EO END OF SLEEP T HOLLO W. 307 

portion on some little, tough, wrong-headed, broad-skirted 
Dutch urchin, who suliced and swelled and grew dogged 
and sullen beneath the birch. All this he called "doing 
his duty by their parents;" and he never inflicted a chastise- 
ment without following it by the assurance so consolatory 
to the smarting urchin, that "he would remember it and 
thank him for it the longest day he had to live." 

When school hours were over, he was even the compan- 
ion and ])laymate of the larger boys; and on holiday after- 
noons would convey some of the smaller ones home, who 
happened to have pretty sisters or good housewives for 
mothers, noted for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed, 
it behooved him to keep on good terms with his pupils. 
The revenue arising from his school was small, and would 
liave been scarcely sufficient to furnish him with daily 
bread, for he was a huge feeder, and though lank, had 
t he dilating powers of an anaconda; but to help out his 
maintenance, he was, according to country custom in those 
[)artB, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers, 
whose children he instructed. With these he lived success- 
ively a week at a time, thus going the rounds of the neigh- 
borhood, with all his worldly effects tied up in a cotton 
handkerchief. 

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of 
his rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of 
schooling a grievous burden, and schoolmasters as mere 
drones, he had various ways of rendering himself both use- 
ful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers occasionally 
in the lighter labors of their farms; helped to make hay; 
mended the fences; took the horses to water; drove the 
cows from pasture; and cut wood for the winter fire. He 
laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and absolute sway 
with which he lorded it in his little empire, the school, and 
became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. He found 
favor in the eyes of the mothers by petting the children, 
particularly the youngest; and like the lion bold, which 
whilom so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit 
with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot 
for whole hours together. 

In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing- 
master of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright 
shillings by instructing the young folks in psalmody. It 



308 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

was a matter of no little vanity to him on Sundays, to take 
liis station in front of the church gallery, with a band of 
chosen singers; where, in his own mind, he completely car- 
ried away the palm from the parson. Certain it is, his 
voice resounded far above all the rest of the congregation, 
and there are peculiar quavers still to be heard in that 
church, and which may even be heard half a mile off, quite 
to the opposite side of the mill-pond, on a still Sunday 
morning, which are said to be legitimately descended from 
the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers little make- 
shifts, in that ingenious way which is commonly denom- 
inated '' by hook and by crook, ^' the worthy pedagogue got 
on tolerably enough, and was thought, by all who under- 
stood nothing of the labor of head-work, to have a wonderful 
easy life of it. 

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance 
in the female circle of a rural neighborhood; being con- 
sidered a kind of idle gentleman-like personage, of vastly 
superior taste and accomplishments to the rough country 
swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to the parson. 
His appearance, therefore, is apt to occasion some little 
stir at the tea-table of a farm-house, and the addition of a 
supernumerary dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or peradvent- 
ure, the parade of a silver tea-pot. Our man of letters, 
therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the 
country damsels. How he would figure among them in the 
churchyard, between services on Sundays! gather grapes for 
them from the wild vines that overrun the surrounding 
trees; reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs on the 
tombstones; or sauntering with a whole bevy of them along 
the banks of the adjacent mill-pond; while the more bash- 
ful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his 
superior elegance and address. 

From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of travel- 
ling gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip 
from house to house; so that his appearance was always 
greeted with satisfaction. He was, moreover, esteemed by 
the women as a man of great erudition, for he had read 
several books quite through, and was a perfect master of 
Cotton Mather's History of New England Witchcraft, in 
which, by the way, he most firmly and potently believed. 

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and 



THE LEQEND OF SLEEP Y HOLLO W. 3 U9 

simple credulity. His appetite for the nicirvellous and his 
powers of digesting it were equally extraordinary; and both 
had been increased by his residence in this spell -bound 
region. No tale was too gross or monstrous for his capa- 
cious swallow. It was often his delight, after his school 
was dismissed in the afternoon, to strech himself on the 
rich bed of clover, bordering the little brook that whim- 
pered by his school-house, and there con over old Mather's 
direful tales, until the gathering dusk of evf^ning made the 
printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended 
his way, by swamp and stream and awful woodland, to the 
farm-house where he happened to be quartered, every 
sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited 
imagination: the moan of the whip-poor-will* from the hill- 
side; the boding cry of the tree-toad, that harbinger of 
storm; the dreary hooting of the screech-owl; or the sudden 
rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from their roost. 
The fire-flies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the 
darkest places, now and then startled him, as one of uncom- 
mon brightness would stream across his path; and if, by 
chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his 
blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to 
give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a 
witch's token. His only resource on such occasions, eithe)' 
to drown thought, or drive away evil spirits, was to sing 
psalm tunes; — and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as 
they sat by their doors of an evening, were often filled with 
awe, at hearing his nasal melody, " in linked sweetness 
long drawn out," floating from the distant hill, or along 
the dusky road. 

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was, to pass 
long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives as they sat 
spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and 
sputtering along the hearth, and listen to their marvellous 
tales of ghosts, and goblins, and haunted fields and haunted 
brooks, and haunted bridges and haunted houses, and par- 
ticularly of the headless horseman, or galloping Hessian of 
the Hollow, as they sometimes called him. He would de- 
light them equally by his anecdotes of witchcraft, and of 
the direful omens and portentous sights and sounds in the 

* The whip-poor-will is a bird whic'u is only h<;aril at ni^ht. It receives its 
name from its note, which is thought to resemblo those words. 



310 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

air, which prevailed in the early times of Connecticut; and 
would frighten them wofully with speculations upon comets 
and shooting stars, and with the alarming fact that tlie 
world did absolutely turn round, and that they were half 
the time topsy-turvy! 

But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cud- 
dling in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a 
ruddy glow from the crackling wood lire, and where, of 
course, no spectre dared to sliow its face, it was dearly pur- 
chased by tlie terrors of his subsequent walk homewards. 
What fearful shapes and shadows beset his i^atli, amidst the 
dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night! — With what wist- 
ful look did he eye every trembling ray of light streaming 
across the waste fields from some distant window! — How 
often was he appalled by some shrub covered with snow, 
which like a sheeted spectre beset his very path! — How^ften 
did he shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his own 
steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet; and dread to look 
over his shoulder, lest he should behold some uncouth 
being tramping close behind him! — and how often was he 
thrown into complete dismay by some rushing blast, howl- 
ing among the trees, in the idea that it was the galloping 
Hessian on one of his nightly scourings! 

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, 
phantoms of the mind, that walk in darkness: and though 
he had seen many spectres in his time, and been more than 
once beset by Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely per- 
ambulations, yet daylight put an end to all these evils; and 
he would iiave passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the 
Devil and all his works, if his path had not been crossed 
by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than 
ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together; 
and that was — a woman. 

Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening 
in each week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, was 
Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and 07ily child of a sub- 
stantial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh 
eighteen; plump as a partridge; ripe and melting and rosy- 
cheeked as one of her father's peaches, and universally 
famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast expecta- 
tions. She was witlial a little of a coquette, as might be 
perceived even in her dress, which was a mixture of ancient 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEP T HOLLO W. 311 

and modern fashions, us most suited to set off her charms. 
She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold, which her 
great-great-grandmother had brought over from Saardam; 
the tempting stomacher of the olden time, and withal a 
provokingly short petticoat, to display the prettiest foot and 
ankle in the country round. 

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards the 
sex; and it is not to be wondered at, that so tempting a 
morsel soon found favor in his eyes, more especially after 
he had visited her in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus 
Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, 
liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either 
his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own 
farm; but within these, everything was snug, happy and 
well-conditioned. He was satisfied with his wealth, but 
not proud of it; and piqued himself upon the hearty 
abundance, rather than the style in which he lived. His 
stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in 
one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks, in which the 
Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A great elm -tree 
spread its broad branches over it; at the foot of which 
bubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest water, in a 
little well, formed of a barrel; and then stole sparkling 
away through the grass, to a neighboring brook, that 
babbled along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by 
the farm-house was a vast barn, that might have served for 
a church; every window and crevice of which seemed 
bursting forth with the treasures of the farm; the flail was 
busily resounding within it from morning to night; swallows 
and martins skimmed twittering about the eaves; and rows 
of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, as if watching the 
weather, some with their heads nnder their wings, or buried 
in their bosoms, and others, swelling, and cooing, and 
bowing about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on 
the roof. Sleek unwieldy porkers were grunting in the 
repose and abundance of their pens, from whence sallied 
forth, now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to sniff 
the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in 
an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks; regi- 
ments of turkeys were gobbling through the farm-yard, 
and guinea-fowls fretting about it like ill-tempered house- 
wives, with their peevish^ discontented cry. Before the 



313 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a 
husband, a warrior, and a fine gentleman; clapping his 
burnished wings and crowing in the pride and gladness of 
his heart — sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet,, 
and then generously calling liis ever-hungry family of 
wives and children to enjoy the rich morsel which he had 
discovered. 

The pedagogue's mouth watered, as he looked upon this 
sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his de- 
vouring mind's eye, he pictured to himself every roasting 
pig running about, with a pudding in its belly, and an 
apple in its mouth; the pigeons were snugly put to bed in 
a (comfortable pie, and tucked in with a coverlet of crust; 
the geese were swimming in their own gravy; and the 
ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married couples, 
with a decent competency of onion sauce. In the porkers 
he saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon, and -juicy 
relishing ham; not a turkey, but he beheld daintily trussed 
up, with its gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure, a 
necklace of savory sausages; and even bright chanticleei. 
himself lay sprawling on his back, in a side dish, with up- 
lifted claws, as if craving that quarter which his chivalrous 
spirit disdained to ask while living. 

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he 
rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow lands, the 
rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, 
and the orchards burdened with ruddy fruit, which sur- 
rounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart 
yearned after the damsel who was to inherit these domains, 
and his imagination expanded with the idea, how they 
might be readily turned into cash, and the money invested 
in immense tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces in the 
wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopes, 
and presented to him the blooming Katrina, Avith a whole 
family of children mounted on the top of a wagon loaded 
with household trumpery, with pots and kettles dangling 
beneath; and ho beheld himself bestriding a pacing mare, 
with a colt at her heels, setting out for Kentucky, Tennes- 
see — or the Lord knows where! 

When he entered the house, the conquest of his heart 
was complete. It was one of those spacious farm-houses, 
with higli-ridged, but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the style 



TEE LEGEND OF ULEEP Y HOLLO W. 313 

handed down from the first Dutch settlers. The low pro- 
jecting eaves forming a i)ijizza along the front, capable of 
being closed up in bad weather. Under this were hung 
flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, and nets for 
fishing in the neighboring river. Benches were built along 
the sides for summer use; and a great spinning-wheel at 
one end, and a churn at the other, showed the various uses 
to which this important porch might be devoted. From 
this piazza the wonderful Ichabod entered the hall, which 
formed the centre of the mansion, and the place of usual 
residence. Here, rows of resplendent pewter, ranged on a 
long dresser, dazzled his eyes, In one corner stood a huge 
bag of wool, ready to be spun; in another, a quantity of 
linsey-woolsey just from the loom; ears of Indian corn, 
and strings of dried apples and peaches, hung in gay fes- 
toons along the walls, mingled with the gaud of red pep- 
pers; and a door left ajai-, gave him a peep into the best 
parlor, where the claw-footed chairs, and dark mahogany 
tables, shone like mirrors; andirons, with their accompany- 
ing shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert of aspar- 
agus tops; mock-oranges and conch shells decorated the 
mantelpiece; strings of various colored birds' eggs were 
suspended above it; a great ostrich egg was hung from the 
centre of the room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly left 
open, displayed immense treasures of old silver and well- 
mended china. 

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these re- 
gions of delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, and 
his only study was how to gain the affections of the peer- 
less daughter of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, however, 
he had more real difficulties than generally fell to the lot of 
a knight-errant of yore, who seldom had anything but 
giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, and such like easily con- 
quered adversaries, to contend with, and had to make his 
way merely through gates of iron and brass, and walls of 
adamant to the castle-keep, where the lady of his heart 
was confined; all whicli he achieved as easily as a man 
would carve his way to the centre of a Christmas pie, and 
then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of course. 
Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his way to the lieart 
of a country coquette, beset with a labyrinth of whims and 
caprices, which were forever presenting new difficulties and 



314 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

impediments, ami ho luul to encounter a host of fearful 
adversaries of real flesh and blood, and numerous rustic 
admirers, who beset every portal to her heart; keeping a 
watchful and angr}' eye upon each other, but ready to tly 
out in the common ciiuse against any new competitor. 

Among these, the most formidable was a burly, roaring, 
roysteriug blade, of the name of Abraham, or according to 
the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the 
country round, which rung with his feats of strength and 
hardihood, lie was broad-shouldered and double-jointed, 
witli short, curly black hair, and a bluff, but not un})leasant 
countenance, having a mingled air of fun and arrogance. 
From his Herculean frame and great powers of limb, he 
had received the nickname of Bkom Hones, by which he 
was universally known, lie was fanunl for great knowl- 
edge and skill in horsemanship, being as dexterous on 
horseback as a Tartar. lie was foremost at all races and 
cock-fights, and with the ascendancy which bodily strength 
always acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all dis- 
putes, setting his hat on one side, and giving his decisions 
with an air and tone that admitted of no gainsay or appeal. 
He was always ready for either a fight or a frolic; had more 
mischief than ill-will in his composition; and with all his 
overbearing rouglmess, there was a strong dash of waggish 
good-humor at bottom. He had three or four boon com- 
panions of his own stamp, who regarded him as their niodel, 
and at the head of whom he scoured the country, atteml- 
ing every scene of feud or merriment for miles around. 
In cold weather, he was distinguished by a fur cap, sur- 
mounted with a flaunting fox's tail; and when the folks at 
a. country gathering descried this well-known crest at a 
distance, whisking about among a squad of hard riders, 
they always stooil by for a squall. iSometimes his crew 
would be lieard dashing along past the farm-houses at mid- 
night, with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don ('ossacks, 
and the old dames, startled out of their sleep, would listen 
for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clattered by, and 
then exclaim, "Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his gang!" 
The neighbors looked upon him with a mixture of awe, 
admiration, ami good -will; and when any madcap prank 
or rustic brawl occurred in the vicinity, always shook their 
heads, and warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it. 



THE LEGEND OF SLKKP Y HOLLO W. 315 

This rantipolo lioro had for some time singled out tlie 
blooming Katrina for the object of liis uncouth gallantries, 
uiul though his amorous toyings were something like the 
gentle caresses and endearments of a ])ear, yet it was whis- 
pered that she did not altogether diseourage his hopes. 
(Certain it is, his advances were signals for rival eaiulidati^s 
Lo retire, who felt no inclination to cross a lion in his 
amours; insomuch, that when his horse was seen tied to 
Van Tassel's palings, on a Suiulay night, a sure sign that 
his master was courting, or, as it is termed, "sparking" 
within, all other suitors passed by in despair, and carried 
the war into other (puirters. 

Such was the rormiilable rival with whom Ichabod Craru^ 
liad to contend, aiul considering all things, a stouter man 
than ho would have shrunk from the competition, and a 
wiser man would have despaii'cd. He luid, however, a 
happy mixture of pliability and perseverance in his nature; 
lie was in form and spirit like a supple-jack — yielding, but 
tough; though he l)eut, he never broke; and though he 
bowed beneath the slightest pressure, yet, the nujment it 
was away — jisrk! — ho was as erect, and carried his head as 
high as ever. 

To have t;iken the iield oi)enly against his rival would 
have been madness; for he was not a man to be thwarted 
in his amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. 
Ichabod, therefore, made his advancjcs in a quiet and gen- 
tly-insinuating numner. Under cover of his character of 
singing-master, he made frequent visits at the farm-house; 
not that he had anything to apprehend from the meddle- 
some interference of parents, which is so often a stumbling- 
block in the path of lovers. Bait Van Tassel was an easy 
indulgent soul; he loved his daughter better even than his 
pipe, and like a reasonable man, and an excellent father, 
let her have her way in everything. His notable little 
wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her housekeeping 
and manage the })oultry; for, as she sagely observed, ducks 
and geese are foolish things, and nnist be looked after, bub 
girls can take care of themselves. Thus, while the busy 
dame bustled about the house, or i)lied her spinning-wheel 
at one end of the j)iazza, honest Bait would sit smoking his 
evening })ij)e at t!ie otlier, watching the achievements of a 
little wooden warrior, who, armed with a sword in each haud, 



JJIG THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

WHS most valiantly fightiiii;- the wind on the pinnacle of ths 
barn. In the meantime, Ichabod would carry on his suit 
with tlie daugther by the side of the spring under the 
great ehn, or sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so 
favorable to the lover's eloquence. 

I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and 
won. To me they have always been matters of riddle and 
admiration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, 
or door of access; while others have a thousand avenues, 
and may be captured in a thousand different ways. It is a 
great triumph of skill to gain the former, but a still greater 
proof of generalship to jnaiutain possession of the hitter, for 
a man must battle for his fortress at every door and window. 
He that wins a thousand common hearts, is therefore en- 
titled to some renown: but he who keeps undisputed sway 
over the heart of a coquette, is indeed a hero. Certain it is, 
this was not the case with the redoubtable Bron\ Bones; 
and from the moment Ichabod Crane made his advances, 
the interests of the former evidently declined: his horse 
was no longer seen tied at the palings on Sunday nights, 
and a deadly feud gradually arose between him and the 
preceptor of Sleepy Hollow, 

Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, 
would fain have carried matters to open warfare, and set- 
tled their pretensions to the lady, according to the mode of 
those most concise and simple reasoners, the knights-errant 
of yore — by single combat: but Ichabod was too conscious 
of the superior might of his adversary to enter the lists 
against him: he had overheard the boast of Bones that he 
would '* double the schoolmaster up, and put him on a 
shelf," and he was too wary to give him an opportunity. 
There was something extremely provoking in this obsti- 
nately pacific system: it left Brom no alternative but to 
draw upon the funds of rustic waggery in his disposition, 
and to play otf boorish practical jokes upon his rival. Ich- 
abod became the object of whimsical persecutions to Boitcs 
and his gang of rough riders. They harried his hitherto 
]ieaceful domains: smoked out his singing-school by stop- 
ping up the chimney: broke into the scliool-house at night, 
m spite of its formidable fastenings of withe and window- 
stakes, and turned everything topsy-turvy: so that tlio 
poor schoolmaster began to think all the witches in the 



THK LFJiKNl) OF HLKKPY llOhhOW. 317 

country held Uioir iii(H;liii<^fn tli(!ro. lint wliut wius Htill moro 
atinoyin*,', Hroni took ;ill ofjportimitioH of l,iiriiiiip^ liiin into 
ridicule, ill piitscnictn)!' liiH iiUHtitiHS, and luuJ iiHcjoiiiidiul dog 
whom lie Laiight to whine in the most indiui-ons inunnor, 
and introduced as a rival of Ichahod'H, to instrnet lusr in 
paalrnody. 

In this way, niattcM-K wtnit on for Homo time, witlioiit 
producing any matcirial ell'oet on the ndative Hitiiati(MiK of 
the contending powcirs. On a line antiimnal iifternoon, 
Icliabod, in p(!nsiv<! mood, Hat enthroned on the lofty Htool 
from whence he nsnally watcluid all tlui coiKutriiH of his lit- 
erary realm. In Iuh hand h(! Hway(!(l a IViriih;, that Hceptre 
of (iespotic |)ow(!r; the birch of jnHti(;e rejJOHed on thnjo 
nails, behind the throne, a coiiKtant terror to (!vil doerH; 
while on thodcf.-ik b(d"or(! him might b(! hchsii Himdry contra- 
band articles and j)rohibit(Ml w(!a])ons, d(!te(!te(l n]»on jtho 
persons of idle urchins; siudi as half-mnnclnid apples, l)op- 
guns, whirligigs, lly-cagos, and whole; legions of I'ampiint 
litth? l)aper gamo-cocks, Ai)i)arently tlusre had be(Mi some 
a[)[)alling act of justice recently inflicted, for tlui scholars 
were all i^nsily intent upon their books, or slyly whispering 
behind them with one eye ke[)t upon the mast(;r; and a 
kink of buzzing stillness nsigned throughout the stdiool- 
room. It was suddeidy int(5rnipted by tlie ai)p(!arance of 
a negro in tow-cdoth jackcit and trowscu'S, a round crowned 
fragment of a hat, like the (^ap of Mercury, and mounted 
on the back of a nigged, wild, half-broken colt, which hu 
inanagcid with a roj)'.; by way of h;dt(!r. Iht (;ame clattering 
up to th(! s(!hool-<loor with an invitation to I(diabod to at- 
tend a merry-making, or " (juilting-frolic," to be held tliiit 
evening at Mynhijor Van 'I'assed's; and having deliv(!r(!d his 
message with that air of importance, and effort at line lan- 
guage!, which a negro is apt to display on p(!tty embassies of 
the kimi, ho dashed over the brook, atid was H(!en scamper- 
ing away up the hollow, full of the importance and hurry 
(jf his mission. 

All was now bustle and liubbub in the late quiet scliool- 
room. The scholars wen; hurried through thcur hissons, 
without stopping at trifkis; those who wore nimble, skipjx^d 
over half wiLli impunity, and those who wore tardy, had a 
smart a[)plication now and then in the roai", to qniidvcri 
their speed, or help thorn over a tall word. Books woro 



318 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

flung aside, without being put away on the shelves; ink- 
stands were overturned, benches thrown down, and the 
whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual 
tinu^; bursting forth like a legion of young imps, yelping 
and racketing about the green, in joy at their early emanci- 
pation. 

The gallant Ichabod now silent at least an extra half-hour 
at his toilet, brusliing a)id furbisbing up his best, and in- 
deed only suit of rusty black, and arranging liis looks by a 
bit of broken looking-glass, that hung up in the school- 
house. That he might make his appearance before his 
mistress in the true style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse 
from the farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a choleric 
old Dutchman, of the name of Hans Van Ripper, and thus 
gallantly mounted, issued forth like a knight-errant in 
quest of adventures. But it is meet I should, in the true 
spirit of romantic story, give some account of the look~& and 
equipments of my hero and his steed. The aninuil he be- 
strode was a broken-down plough-horse, that had outlived 
almost everything but his viciousness. He was gaunt and 
shagged, with a ewe iieck and a head like a hammer; his 
rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burrs; 
one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral, 
but the other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still 
he must have had fire and mettle in his day, if we may 
judge from his name, Avhich was Guni)owder. He had, in 
fact, been a favorite steed of his master's, the choleric Van 
Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused, very 
probably, some of his own spirit into the animal; for, old 
and broken-down as he looked, there was more of the lurk- 
ing devil in him than in any young filly in the country. 

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode 
with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to 
the pommel of the saddle: his sharp elbows stuck out like 
grasshoppers'; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his 
hand, like a sceptre, and as the horse jogged on, the motion 
of his arms was not unlike the fla2)ping of a \m\v of wings. 
A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his 
scanty strip of forehead might be called, and the skirts 
of his black coat fluttered out almost to the horse's tail. 
Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed as they 
shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Kipper, and it was 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEP Y HOLLO W. 319 

altogether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with in 
broMfi daylight. 

It was, as 1 have said, a i'ww auiiirnuul day; the sky was 
clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden 
livery which wo always associate witli tht; idea of abiiiulance. 
The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while 
some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the 
frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. 
Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their appear- 
ance high in the air; the bark of the squirrel might be 
heard from the grovi^s of beech and hickory-nuts, and the 
pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighbor- 
ing stubble field. 

The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In 
the fullness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and 
frolicking, from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious 
from the very profusion aiul variety around them. There 
was the honest cockrobin, the favorite game of stripling 
sportsmen, with its loud querulous note, and the twittering 
blackbirds flying in sable clouds; and the golden- wingecl 
woodpecker, with his crimson crest, his broad black gorget, 
and splendid phunage; and the cedar-bird, with its red-tipt 
wings and yellow-tipt tail and its little monteiro cap of 
feathers; and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in his gay 
light blue coat and white underclothes, screaming and 
chattering, nodding, and bobbing, and bowing, and pre- 
tending to be on good terms with every songster of the 
grove. 

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open 
to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with de- 
light over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he 
beheld vast stores of apples, some hanging in oppressive 
opulence on the trees; some gathered into baskets and 
barrels for the market; others heaped up in rich piles for 
the cider-press. P'arther on he beheld great fields of Indian 
corn, with its golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, 
and holding out the promise of cakes and hasty-pudding; 
and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up 
their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving ample pros- 
pects of the most luxurious of pies; and anon he passed 
the fragrant buckwheat fields breathing the odor of the 
beehive; and as he beheld them, soft anticipatiojis stole over 



320 THE SKErCH-BOOK. 

his mind of dainty slap-jacks, well-buttered, and garnished 
with honey or treacle, by the delicate little dimpled hand 
of Katrina Van Tassel. 

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and 
" sugared suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a 
range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest 
scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled 
his broad disk down in the west. The wide bosom of the 
Tappan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here 
and there a gentle undulation waved and prolonged the 
blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber clouds 
floated in the sky, Avithout a breath of air to move them. 
'Uhe horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing gradually 
into a pure apple green, and from that into the deep blue 
of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody 
crests of the precipices that overhung some parts of the 
river, giving greater depth to the dark gray and purple of 
their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the distance, 
dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail hanging use- 
lessly against the mast; and as the reflection of the sky 
gleamed along the still water, it seemed as if the vessel was 
suspended in the air. 

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle 
of the Ilerr Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the 
pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old farmers, a 
spare leathern-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, 
blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. 
Their brisk, withered little dames, in close crimped caps, 
long-waisted gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and 
pin-cushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside. 
Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, ex- 
cejjting where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white 
frock, gave symptoms of city innovations. The sons, in 
short square skirted coats, with rows of stupendous brass 
buttons, and their hair generally queued in the fashion of 
the times, especially if they could procure an eelskin for 
the purpose, it being esteemed throughout the country as 
a potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair. 

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having 
come to the gathering on his favorite steed Daredevil, a 
creature, like himself, full of mettle and mischief, and 
which no one but himself could manage. He was, in fact^ 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. S%1 

noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of 
tricks which kept the rider in constant risk of his neck, for 
he held a tractable, well-broken horse as unworthy of a lad 
of spirit. 

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms 
that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he en- 
tered the state parlor of Van Tassel's mansion. Not those 
of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious display of 
red and white; but the ample charms of a genuine Dutch 
country tea-table, in the sumptuous time of autumn. 
Siich heaped-up platters of cakes of various and almost in- 
describable kinds, known only to experienced Dutch house- 
wives! There was the doughty doughnut, the tender oly- 
koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller; sweet cakes and 
short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole 
family of cakes. And then there were apple pies, and 
pumpkin pies; besides slices of ham and smoked beef; and 
moreover delectable dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, 
and pears, and quinces; not to mention broiled shad and 
roasted chickens; together with bowls of milk and cream, 
all mingled higgledy-piggledy, i)retty much as I have enu- 
merated them, with the motherly tea-pot sending up its 
clouds of vapor from the midst — Heaven bless the mark! 
I want breath and time to discuss this banquet as it deserves, 
and am too eager to get on with my story. Happily, 
Ichabod Crane was not in so gi-eat a hurry as his historian, 
but did ample justice to every dainty. 

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated 
in proportion as his skin was filled with good cheer, and 
whose spirits rose with eating, as some men's do with 
drink. He could not help, too, rolling his large eyes round 
hitn as he ate, and chuckling with the possibility that he 
might one day be lord of all this scene of almost unimagin- 
able luxury and splendor. Then, he thought, how soon 
he'd turn his back upon the old school-house; snap his 
fingers in the face of Hans Van Eipper, and every other 
niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant pedagogue out of 
doors that should dare to call him comrade! 

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests 
with a face dilated with content and good-humor, round 
and jolly as the harvest moon. His hos^iitable attentions 
were brief, but expressive, being confined to a shake of tlio 



322 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing 
invitation to "fall to, and help themselves." 

And now the sound of the music from the common 
room, or hall, summoned to the dance. The musician 
was an old gray-headed negro, who had been the itinerant 
orchestra of the neighborhood for more than half a cen- 
tury. His instrument was as old and battered as himself. 
The greater part of the time he scraped away on two or 
three strings, accompanying every movement of the bow 
with a motion of the head; bowing almost to the ground, 
and stamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple were 
to start. 

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as 
upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre about him 
was idle; and to have seen his loosely hung frame in full 
motion, and clattering about the room, you would have 
thought St. Vitus himself, that blessed patron^ of the 
dance, was figuring before you in person. He was the ad- 
miration of all the negroes; who, having gatliered, of all 
ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, stood 
forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every door and 
window; gazing with delight at the scene; rolling their 
white eye-balls, and showing grinning rows of ivory from 
ear to ear. How could the flogger of urchins be otherwise 
than animated and joyous? the lady of his heart was his 
partner in the dance, and smiling graciously in reply to all 
his amorous oglings; while Brom Bones, sorely smitten 
with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one 
corner. 

When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted 
to a knot of the sager folks, who, with Old Van Tassel, 
sat smoking at one end of the piazza, gossiping over 
former times, and drawling out long stories about the war. 

Tiiis neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, 
was one of those highly favored places which abound witli 
chronicle and great men. The British and American line 
had run near it during the war; it had, therefore, been the 
scene of maurading, and infested with refugees, cow-boys, 
and all kind of border chivalry. Just suflicient time had 
elapsed to enable each story-teller to dress up his tale 
Avith a little becoming fiction, and, in the indistinct- 
ness of his recollection, to make himself the hero of every 
exploit. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEP Y HOLLO W. 323 

There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large bkie- 
bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate 
with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only 
that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there was 
an old gentleman who shall be nameless, being too rich a 
mynheer to be lightly mentioned, who in the battle of 
Whiteplains, being an excellent master of defence, parried 
a musket-ball with a small sword, insomuch that he abso- 
lutely felt it whiz round the blade, and glance off at the 
hilt; in proof of which he was ready at any time to show 
the sword, with the hilt a little bent. There were several 
more that had been equally great in the field, not one of 
whom but was persuaded that he had a considerable hand in 
bringing the war to a happy termination. 

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and ap- 
paritions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in 
legendary treasures of the kind. Local tales and supersti- 
tions thrive best in these sheltered, long-settled retreats; 
but are trampled under foot by the shifting throng that 
forms the population of most of our country places. Besides, 
there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of our vil- 
lages, for they have scarcely had time to finish their first 
Hap, and turn themselves in their graves, before their sur- 
viving friends have travelled away from the neighborhood; 
so that when they turn out at night to walk their rounds, 
they have no acquaintance left to call upon. This is per- 
haps the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts except in 
our long-established Dutch communities. 

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of 
Bupernatural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to 
the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in 
the very air that blew from that haunted region; it breathed 
forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infecting all the 
land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people were present at 
Van Tassel's, and, as usual, were doling out their wild and 
wonderful legends. Many dismal tales were told about 
funeral trains, and mourning cries and wailings heard and 
seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major 
Andr6 was taken, and which stood in the neighborhood. 
Some mention was made also of the woman in white, that 
haunted the dark glen at Eaven Rock, and was often heard 
to shriek on winter nights before a storm, having perished 



324 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

there in the snow. The chief piirt of the stories, however, 
turned upon the favorite spectre of Sleepy Hollow, the 
lieaclless horseman, who had been heard sevei-al times of 
late, jjatrolling the country; and it is said, tethered his 
horse nightly among the graves in the churchyard. 

The sequestered situation of this church seems always to 
have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands 
on a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from 
among which its decent, whitewashed walls shine modestly 
forth, like Christian purity, beaming through the shades of 
retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to a silver 
sheet of water, bordered by high trees, between which, 
peeps may be caught at the blue hills of the Hudson. To- 
look upon its grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams seem 
to sleep so quietly, one would think that there at least the 
dead might rest in peace. On one side of the church ex- 
tends a' wide woody dell, along which raves a large t)rook 
among broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a 
deep black part of the stream, not far from the church, 
was formerly thrown a wooden iDridge; the road that led to 
it, and the bridge itself, were thickly shaded by overhang- 
ing trees, which cast a gloom about it, even in the day-time; 
but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. Such was one 
of the favorite haunts of the headless horseman, and the 
place wli he was most frequently encountered. The tale 
was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical disbeliever in 
ghosts, how he met the horseman returning from his foray 
into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind him; 
how they galloped over bush cind brake, over hill and 
swamp, until they reached the bridge; when the horseman 
suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into 
the brook, and sprang away over the tree-tops with a clap of 
thunder. 

This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvel- 
lous adventure of Brom Eones, who made light of the 
galloping Hessian as an arxant jockey. He aQirmed, that 
on returning one night fi'om the neighboring village of 
Sing-Sing, he had been ovtu'taken by a midnight trooper; 
that he had oifered to race him for "a bowl of punch, and 
should have won it too, for ] daredevil beat the goblin horse 
all liollow, but just as they t 'iime to the church bridge, the 
Hessian bolted, and vanished', in a flash of fire. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 325 

All these tales, told iu that drowsy undertone with which 
men talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only 
now and then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a 
pipe, sunk deep in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them 
in kind with large extracts from his invaluable author, 
Cotton Mather, and added many marvellous events that had 
taken place in his native State of Connecticut, and fearful 
sights which he had seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy 
Hollow. 

The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers 
gathered together their families in their wagons, and were 
heard for some time rattling along the hollow roads, and 
over the distant hills. Some of the damsels mounted on 
pillions behind their favorite swains, and their light-hearted 
laughter mingling with the clattering of hoofs, echoed along 
the silent woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter, until 
they gradually died away — and the late scene of noise and 
frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod only lingered 
behind, according to the custom of country lovers, to have 
a t6te-a-tete with the heiress; fully convinced that he was 
now on the high road to success. What passed at this in- 
terview I will not pretend to say, for in fact I do not know. 
Something, however, I fear me, must have gone wrong, 
for he certainly sallied forth, after no very great interval, 
with an air quite desolate and chapfallen — Oh, these women! 
these women! Could that girl have been playing off any of 
her coquettish tricks? — Was her encouragement of the poor 
pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her conquest of his rival ? 
— Heaven only knows, not I! — Let it suffice to say, Ichabod 
stole forth with tlie air of one who had been sacking a hen- 
roost, rather than a fair lady's heart. Without looking to 
the right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth, on 
which he had so often gloated, he went straight to the 
stable, and with several hearty cuffs and kicks, roused his 
steed most uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in 
which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of 
corn and oats, and whole valleys of timothy and clover. 

It was the very witching hour of night that Ichabod, 
heavy-hearted, and crest-fallen, pursued his travel home- 
wards, along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above 
Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so cheerily in the 
afternoon- The hour was as dismal as himself. Far below 



32G • THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

him the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste 
of waters, with here and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding 
quietly at anchor under the land. In the dead hush of 
midnight^ he could even hear the barking of the watch-dog 
from the opposite shore of the Hudson; but it was so vague 
and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from this 
faithful companion of man. Now and then, too, the long- 
drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would 
sound far, far off, from some farm-house away among the 
hills — but it was like a dreaming sound in his ear. No 
sign of life occurred near him, bui" occasionally the melan- 
choly chirp of a cricket, or perliaps the guttural twang of a 
bull-frog from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncom- 
fortably, and turning suddenly in his bed. 

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in, 
the afternoon, now came crowding upon his recollection. — 
The night grew darker and darker; the stars seemed to 
sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid 
them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and dis- 
mal. He was, moreover, approaching the very place where 
many of the scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In 
the centre of the road stood an enormous tulip-tree, which 
towered like a giant above all the other trees of the neigh- 
borhood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its limbs were 
gnarled and fantastic, large enougli to form trunks for 
ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth, and ris- 
ing again into the air. It was connected with the tragical 
story of the unfortunate Andre, who had been taken 
prisoner hard by, and was universally known by the name 
of Major Andre's tree. The common people regarded it 
with a mixture of respect and superstition, partly out of 
sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred namesake, and 
partly from the tales of strange sights, and doleful lamenta- 
tions, told concerning it. 

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to 
whistle; he thought his whistle was answered: it was but a 
blast sweeping sharply througli the dry branches. As he 
approached a little nearer, he thought he saw something 
white hanging in the midst of the tree: he paused, and 
ceased whistling; but on looking more narrowly, perceived 
that it was a place where the tree had been scathed by 
lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he 



THE LEQEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 327 

heard a groan — his teeth chattered, and his knees smote 
against the saddle: it was but the rubbing of one huge 
bough upon another, as they were swayed about by the 
breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay be- 
fore him. 

About two hundred yards from the tree, a small brook 
crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly-wooded 
glen, known by the name of Wiley's Swamp. A few rough 
logs laid side by side, served for a bridge over this stream. 
On that side of the road where the brook entered the wood, 
a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild 
grape-vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this 
bridge was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot 
that the unfortunate Andre was captured, and under the 
covert of those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen 
concealed who surprised him. This has ever since been 
considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings 
of a school-boy who has to pass it alone after dark. 

As he approached the stream, his heart began to thump; 
he summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his 
horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to 
dash briskly across the bridge; but instead of starting for- 
ward, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement, 
and ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears 
increased with the delay, jerked the reins on the other side, 
and kicked lustly Avitli the contrary foot: it was all in vain; 
his steed started, it is true, but it was only to plunge to the 
opposite of the road into a thicket of brambles and alder- 
bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and 
heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who 
dashed forwards, snuffing and snorting, but came to a 
stand just by the bridge, with a suddenness that had nearly 
sent his rider sprawling over his head. Just at this moment 
a splashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the sensi- 
tive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on 
the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, mis- 
shapen, black and towering. It stirred not, but seemed 
gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster 
ready to spring upon the traveller. 

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his 
head with terror. What Avas to be done? To turn and fly 
was now too late; and besides, what chance was there of es- 



338 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

caping gliost or goblin, if snch it was, which could ride up- 
on the wings of the wind? Summoning up, therefore, a 
show of courage, he demanded in stammering accents — 
"Who are you?" He received no reply. He repeated his 
demand in a still more agitated voice. Still there was no 
answer. Once more he cudgelled the sides of the inflexible 
Gunpowder, and sliutting Ids eyes, broke forth with in- 
voluntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the shad- 
owy object of alarm put itself in motion, and witli a scram- 
ble and a bound; stood at once in the middle of the road. 
Tliough tlie night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the 
unknown might now in some degree be ascertained. He 
appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions, and 
mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. He made no 
otfer of molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on one side 
of the road, jogging along on the blind side of old Gun- 
powder, who had now got over his fright and wayward- 
ness. 

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight 
companion, and bethought himself of the adventure of 
Brom Bones with the galloping Hessian, now quickened 
his steed, in hopes of leaving him behind. Tlie stranger, 
however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod 
pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag belnnd — 
the other did the same. His heart began to sink within 
him; he endeavored to resume his psalm tune, but liis 
parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he 
could not utter a stave. There was something in the 
moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious companion 
that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully 
accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, whicli 
brought the figure of his fellow-traveller in relief against 
the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod 
was horror-struck, on perceiving that he was lieadless! but 
his horror was still more increased, on observing that the 
head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was car- 
ried before him on the pommel of his saddle! His terror 
rose to desperation; he rained a shower of kicks and blows 
upon Gunpowder, hoping, by a sudden movement, to give 
his companion the slip — but the spectre started full jump 
with him. Away, tlien, they dashed through thick and 
thin; stones flying and sparks flashing at every bound. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 329 

Icliabod's flimsy ganueiits fluttered in the air, as lie 
tretohed his long lank body away over his horse's liead, in 
the eagerness of his flight. 

They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy 
Hollow; but Gunpowder, wlio seemed possessed with a de- 
mon, instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and 
plunged headlong down liill to the left. This road leads 
through a sandy hollow, shaded by trees for about a quarter 
of a mile, where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin 
story; and Just beyond swells the green knoll on which 
stands the whitewashed church. 

As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskillful 
rider an apparent advantage in the chase; but just as he 
had got half way through the hollow, the girths of the sad- 
dle gave way, and he felt it slipping from under him. lie 
seized it by the pommel, and endeavored to hold it firm, 
but in vain; and had just time to save himself by clasping 
old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle fell to the 
earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. 
For a moment the terror of Hans Van liipper's wrath 
passed across his mind — for it was his kSunday saddle; but 
this was no time for petty fears; the goblin was hard on his 
haunches; and (unskilled rider that he was!) he had much, 
ado to maintain his seat; sometimes slipping on one side, 
sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted on the high 
ridge of his horse's backbone, with a violence that he verily 
feared would cleave him asunder. 

An opening in the trees now cheered him witli the hopes 
that the church bridge was at hand. Tlie wavering reflec- 
tion of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told him 
that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls of the chui'ch 
dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He recollected the 
place where Brom Bones' ghostly competitor had disap- 
peared. " If I can but reacli that bridge," thought Icha- 
bod, "I am safe." Just then he heard the black steed 
panting and blowing close behind him; he even fancied 
that he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in 
the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprung upon the bridge; he 
thundered over the resounding planks; he gained the opj[)o- 
site side, and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his 
pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in a flash of fire 
and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in his 



330 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his head at him. 
Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too 
late. It encountered his cranium with a treniendoiis crash 
— he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, 
the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a 
whirlwind. 

The next morning the old horse M'as found without his 
saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping 
the ^ass at his master's gate. Ichabod did not make his 
appearance at breakfast — dinner-hour came, but no Icha- 
bod. The boys assembled at the school-house, and strolled 
idly about the banks of the brook; but no schoolmaster. 
Hans Van Kipper now began to feel some uneasiness about 
the fate of poor Ichabod, and his saddle. An inquii'} was 
set on foot, and after diligent investigation they came upon 
his traces. In one part of the road leading to the church, 
was found the saddle trampled in the dirt; the tracks of 
horses' hoofs deeply dented in the road, and, evidently at 
furious speed, were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on 
the bank of a broad part of the brook, where the water ran 
deep and black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Icha' 
bod, and close beside it a shattered pumpkin. 

The brook was searclied, but the body of the school- 
master was not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as 
executor of his estate, examined the bundle which contained 
all his worldly effects. They consisted of two shirts and a 
half; two stocks for the neck; a j^air or two of worsted 
stockings; an old pair of corduroy small-clothes; a rusty 
razor; a book of psalm tunes full of dog's ears; and a 
broken pitch-pipe. As to the books and furniture of the 
school-house, they belonged to the community, excepting 
Cotton Mather's History of Witchcraft, a New England 
Almanac, and a book of dreams and fortune-telling; in 
which last was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled and 
blotted, by several fruitless attempts to make a copy of 
verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. These magic 
books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned to the 
flames by Hans Van Ripper; who, from that time forward, 
determined to send his children no more to school; observ- 
ing that he never knew any good come of this same reading 
and writing. Whatever jnoney the schoolmaster possessed, 
and he had received his quarter's pay but a day or two 



TEE LEGEND F SLEEP T HOLLO W. 33 1 

before, he must have had about his person at the time of 
liis disappearance. 

The mysterious event caused much specuhition at the 
church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gos- 
sips were collected in the churchyard, at the bridge, and at 
the spot where the luit and pumpkin had been found. The 
stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole budget of others^ 
were called to mind; and when they had diligently con- 
sidered them all, and compared them with the symptoms of 
the present case, they shook their heads, and came to the 
conclusion, that Ichabod had been carried off by the gallop- 
ing Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in nobody's debt, 
nobody troubled his head any more about him; the school 
was removed to a different quarter of the Hollow, and 
another pedagogue reigned in his stead. 

It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New 
York oil a visit several years after, and from whom this ac- 
count of the ghostly adventure . as received, brought home 
the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive; that he 
had left the neighborhood partly through fear of the goblin 
and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortification at hav- 
ing been suddenly dismissed by the heiress; that he had 
changed his quarters to a distant part of the country; had 
kept school and studied law at the same time; had been ad- 
mitted to the bar; turned politician; electioneered; written 
for the newspapers; and finally, had been made a Justice of 
the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones, too, who, shortly 
after his rival's disappearance, conducted the blooming 
Katrina in triumph to the altar, was observed to look 
exceedingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was 
related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at the men- 
tion of the pumpkin; which led some to suspect that he 
knew more about the matter than he chose to tell. 

The old country wives, however, who are the best Judges 
of these matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was 
spirited away by supernatural means; and it is a favorite 
story often told about the neighborhood round the winter 
evening fire. The bridge became more than ever an object 
of superstitious awe; and that may be the reason why the 
road has been altered of late years, so as to approach the 
church by the border of the mill-pond. The school-house 
being deserted, soon fell to decay, and was reported to be 



332 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

luumted by the oliost of the unfortunate pedagogue ; and 
the plough-bow loitering homeward of a still summer even- 
ing, h:is often fnncie'.l his voice at a distance, chanting a 
melaiicholv psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of 
Sleepy Hollow. 



POSTSCRIPT. 333 



POSTSCRIPT, 

FOUND IN THE HANDWIUTING OF MK. KNICKEKBOCKER. 

The preceding T;ile is given, almost in the precise words 
in which I lieurd it rehited at a Corpoi'ation meeting of the 
ancient city of the ManJiattoes,* at which were present 
many of its sagest and most ilhistrious burghers. Tlie nar- 
iiitor was a pleasant, shabby, gontlemauly old fellow in 
])epper-and-salt clothes, with a sadly humorous face; and 
one whom I strongly suspected of being poor — he made 
t>uch efforts to be entertaining. When his story was con- 
cluded tbere was niuch laughter and approbation, particu- 
larly from two or three deputy aldermen, who had been 
asleep the greater part of the time. There was, however, 
one tall, dry-looking old gentleman,, with beetling eye- 
brows, who inaintained a grave and rather severe face 
throughout; now and then folding his arms, inclining his 
head, and looking^ down upon the floor, as if turning a 
doubt over in his mind. lie was one of your wary men, 
who never laugh but upon good grounds — when tliey have 
reason and the law on their side. When the mirth of the 
rest of the company had subsided, and silence was restored, 
he leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair, and sticki!)g 
the other a-kimbo, demanded with a slight but exceedingly 
sage motion of the head, and contraction of the broM', what 
was the moral of the story, and what it went to prove. 

The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to 
ills lips, as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment 
looked at his inquirer with an air of innuite deference, and 
lowering the glass slowly to the table observed that the 
story was intended most logically to prove: 

'•'That there is no situation in life but has its advant- 
ages and pleasures — provided we will but take a joke as wo 
find it: 

• New York, 



334 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

" That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troop- 
ers, is likely to have rough riding of it: 

" Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand 
of a Lutch heiress, is a certain step to high preferment in 
tho state." 

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer 
after this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratioci- 
nation of the syllogism; while, methought, the one in pep- 
per-and-salt eyed him with something of a triumphant leei. 
At length he observed that all this was very well, but still 
he thought the story a little on the extravagant — there were 
one or two points on which he had his doubts. 

"Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, *'as to that matter, 
I don't believe ODe-half of it myself." 

D. K. 



U ENVOY. 335 



L'ENVOY. 

Go, little booke, God send thee good passage, 
And specially let this be thy prayere, 
Unto them all that thee will read or hear, 
Where thou art wrong, after their help to call. 
Thee to correct, in any part or all, 

Chatjcek's Bell Dame sans Mercie. 

In concluding a second volume of the Sketck-Book, the 
Author cannot" but express his deep sense of the indul- 
gence with which his first has been received, and of tho 
liberal disposition that has been evinced to treat him with 
kindness as a stranger. Even the critics, whatever may be 
said of them by others, he has found to be a singularly 
gentle and good-natured race; it is true that each has in 
turn objected to some one or two articles, and that these 
individual exceptions, taken in the aggregate, would amount 
almost to a total condemnation of hir work; but then he 
has been consoled by observing, that what one has particu- 
larly censured, another has as particularly praised; and 
thus, the encomiums being set off against the objections, 
he finds his work, upon the whole, commended far beyond 
its deserts. 

He is aware that he runs a risk of forfeiting much of 
this kind favor by not following the counsel that has been 
liberally bestowed upon him; for where abundance of valu- 
able advice is given gratis, it may seem a man's own fault 
if he should go astray. He only can say, in his vindica- 
,tion, that he faithfully determined, for a time, to govern 
himself in his second volume by the opinions passed upon 
his first; but he was soon brought to a stand by the con- 
trariety of excellent counsel. One kindly advised him to 
avoid the ludicrous; another, to shun the pathetic; a third 
assured him that he was tolerable at description, but cau- 
tioned him to leave narrative alone; while a fourth declared 
that he had a very pretty knack at turning a story, and 



336 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

was really entertaining when in a pensive mood, bnt was 
grievonsl}' mistaken if lie imagined himself to possess a 
(?parii of humor. 

Thus perplexed by the advice of his friends, who each in 
tnrn closed some particular patii, but left him all the 
■world besides to range in. he found that to follow all their 
counsels would, in fact, be to stand still. He remained for 
a time sadly embarrassetl,; when, all at once, the thought 
struck him to ramble on as he had begun; that his work be- 
ing miscellaneous, and written for dilYerent humors, it 
could not be expected that anyone vvould be i)leased with 
the whole; but that if it. should contain something to suit 
each reader, his end would be completely answered. Few 
guests sit down to a varied table with an equal appetite 
for every dish. One has an elegant horror of a roasteil— 
l)ig; another holds a curry or a devil in utter abomination; 
a tliird cannot tolerate the ancient llavor of venison iuul 
wild fowl; and a fourth, of truly masculine stonmch, looks 
with sovereign contempt on those knicknaeks, here and 
there dished up for the ladies. Thus each article is con- 
demned in its turn; and yet, amidst this variety of appetites, 
seldom does a dish go away from the table without being 
tasted ami relished by some one or other of the gnests. 

AVith these considerations he ventures to serve up his 
second volume in the same heterogeneous way with liis 
first; sim})ly requesting the reader, if he should find here 
and there something to please him, to rest assured that it 
was written expressly for intelligent readers like himself; 
but entreating him, should he find anything to dislike, to 
tolerate it, as one of those articles which the Author has 
been obliged to wi-ite for readers of a less refined taste. 

To be serious. — The Author is conscious of the numer- 
ous faults and imperfections of his work, ami well aware 
how little he is disciplined and accomplished in the arts of 
authorship. Mis deficiencies are also increased by a difii- 
dence arising from his peculiar situation. lie finds him- 
self writing in a strange land, and appearing before a pub- 
lic which he has been accustomed, from childhood, to re- 
gard with the highest feelings of awe and reverence. He is 
full of solicitude to deserve their :i)iprobation, yet finds 
that very soliidrude coniiiuially embarrast-ing his powers, 
and depriving him of that ease and confidence wliioh are 



r ENVOY. 337 

necessa.ry to suocossful cxortion. Still the kindnnss with 
which he is treated encour:i^-es him to go on, hoping that 
in tiiiu; he may acqnire a steadier i'ooting ; and thns he pro- 
ecods, halt-ventni'ing, haJt'-slirinking, surprised atiiis own 
good fortune, and wondering at his own temerity. 

THE END. 



A, L. Burt'» CataloRue of Books for 
YotiJiK PtopJe by Fopuiar Writers, 5Z- 

55 Doane Street, New York '^ '^ ^ 



BOOKS rOK BOYS. 

Joe's Luck: A IJoj'k A(lv(!iil,ur(!,s in California. By 

Horatio Algcr, .Jii. rjino, clolh, illir-.ti-aUnl, pi-ico $l.oi). 

Tli(> Bloi'.v In «-ln)cU I'bM of Htlri'lnij Incldi'iitN, wlillc llif iiiniiHhii: hHu- 
hUiiiih lire riiriiliilii'd liy .IohIiiiii ISIi'lifonl, rrmii I*iiiiiiikln I'^ollow, iiiiil tli» 
f4'Uc>\v who iikmIi Hlly hI.vIi'H IiIiiimi'II' llic "Kin tiill llniin'i', from I'llu' Co.. 
MIhmouiI." Mr. M;^iT iirvcr wiIIch u i>i>iir IiddU, anil "Joc'h l/uck" 1« cm.t- 
titlnly oiiu <>!' IiIh Ix'Ht. I 

Tom the Bootblack; or, The Koad to Success. By 

HoilATio AlMKii, .III, lliiiiu, clolli, illiiKU'iitcd, |)i'i<;<^ $1.(K). 

A ItikIiI. <'IiIim'|ii'IhIiik IikI vviim Toin tlio Itixil black, ilit wuf) not nt nil 
nslmiiiril III' IiIh liiiiiibli' I'allliiK, (l)iiii^;li alwayH oil tin- lookout to iHittor 
liliiiHi'lt'. Till' lad Niarli-d lor CInrliiiiiitl to look iu> lilH licrltnKi'- Mr. 

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Dan the Newsboy. I'>y Houatio Alqkr, Jii. 12rrio, 

clotli, illiiHtnitiMl, pi'ico .1^1.(10. 

I>iiii Mordiiiint iiiiil IiIh iiiollii'r livo Iti a poor ti'iiriiii'iit, and tli<- lad IM 
pluoklly IrvliiK to miiki' i'ikIh iiu'ct hy hcIIIiik papi-rrt In tlio Htn-i-tH of N<!W 
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daiints. 'J'hc clillil Ih kldiiappi'il and Dan tracks thi' rlilld (o IIk- Iiouhii 
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liclri'MH Is HO di'lli^hli'd with Dan'H cowntKc and uiany i:ood (|ualitl('H 
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Tony the Hero: A Jirave Boy's Adventure witli a 

Tramp, liy Houatio Algicii, Jr. JiJrno, cloth, illimtrut<-(l, prico 8'-"*'- 
Tony, a sturdy brlKht-oycd boy of fouili'cn. Is under the control of 
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and Ki'ts II Job lis Hlable boy In a country hotel. Tony Is heir to u 
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for lilin, and by a brave act, ii rich friend securcH bl8 rlghtH and Tony 
Ih proHperiniH. A very enlertuliilni; hook. 

The Errand Boy; or, How Phil liront Won Success. 

Jly IlouA'rii) Autiai, .hi. ISiiio, cloth ilhiHtralcil, price $1. IK). 

The career of "The ICrrand I5oy" embraces the city adventiirfiH of a 
•iniirt cimntry hid. I'hlllp was hroiiKhl, ii|i by ii kind hearted Innkeepor 
(lanii'd Itrenl. The death of Mrs. Iliiiil luivid the way for the hero'8 
Piibsi'iliiint troiiblcH. A retired merchnnt In New York seciires hitn the 
lillinitliin of errand boy, and thereafter stands as Ills friend. 

Tom Temple's Career. By IIokatio Algku, Jr. 12mo, 

cloth, llliistnitcil, rrice $100. 

Tom Teiniilit is n hrlcht, self-rollant lad. Uc Icuvos IMympton vlllaxe 
to seek work In New York, whenci- he underfakes an Inrmrtnnt mission 
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the reiider will scarcely dose the book until tlie last t>»Ke Hhiill have heoii 
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For sale by all liooksellerH, or Hint poHlpiild on n-celiit of price by tho 
publlHlier, A. L. BURT, 62-68 Duano Street, New York. 



2 " A. L. buet's books for young people. 

BOOKS FOR BOYS. 

Frank Fowler, the Cash Boy. By Horatio Alger, Jr. 

ISmo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 

Frank Fowler, a poor boy, bravely determines to make a IlvinR for 
himself and his foster-sister Grace. Going to New York he obtains a 
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wealthy old gentleman who takes a fancy to the lad, and thereafter 
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Tom Thatcher's Fortune. By Horatio Alger^ Jr. 

12mo, cloth, illustrated, price S^.OO. 

Tom Thatcher is a brave, ambitious, unselfish boy. He supports his 
mother and sister on moajrre wages earned as a shoe-pegger in John 
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in a way which has made Mr. Alger's name a household word in so many 
homes. 

The Train Boy. By Horatio Alger, Jr. 12mo, 

doth, illustrated, price $1.00. 

Paul Palmer was a wide-awake boy of sixteen who supported his mother 
and sister by selling books and papers on the Chicago and Milwaukee 
Railroad. He detects a young man in the act of picking the pocket of a 
young lady. In a railway accident many passengers are killed, but Paul 
Is fortunate enough to assist a Chicago merchant, who out of gratitude 
takes him into his employ. Paul succeeds with tact and judgment and 
Is well started on the road to business prominence. 

mark Mason's Victory. The Trials and Triumphs of 

a Telegraph Boy. By Horatio Alger, Jr. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 

$1.00. 

Mark Mason, the telegraph boy, was a sturdy, honest lad, who plucklly 
(von his way to success by his honest manly efforts under many diffi- 
culties. This story will please the very large class of boys who regard 
Mr. Alger as a favorite author. 

A. Debt of Honor. The Story of Gerald Lane's Success 

in the Far West. By Horatio Alger, Jr. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 

$1.00. 

The story of Gerald Lane and the account of the many trials and dis- 
appointments which he passed through befor^ he attained success, will 
Interest all boys who have read the previous stories of this delightful 
author. 

Ben Bruce. Scenes in the Life of a Bowery Newsboy. 

By Horatio Alger, Jr. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 

Ben Bruce was a brave, manly, generous boy. The story of his efforts, 
and many seeming failures and disappointments, and his final success, are 
most interesting to all readers. The tale is written in Mr. Alger's 
most fascinating style. 

The Castaways; or, On the Florida Eeefs. By James 

Otis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 

This tale smr\oka of the salt sea. From the moment that the Sea 
Queen leaves lower New York bay till the breeze leaves her becalmed off 
the coast of Florida, one can almost hear the whistle of the wind 
through her rigging, the creak of her straining cordage as she heels to 
the leeward. The adventures of Ben Clark, the hero of the storv and 
Jake the cook, cannot fail to charm the reader. As a writer for young 
people Mr. Otis is a prime favorite. 

For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price \>J the 
publisher, A. L. BVS.I, 62-58 Pwne Street, ITew Ypr^. 



A, t. BURT'S BOOKS FGli YOUNG PEOPLE. 



BOOKS FOR BOYS. 

Wrecked on Spider Island ; or. How Ned Kogers Found 

the Treasure. By James Otis. ISmo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 

Ned Rogers, a "down-east" plucky lad ships as cabin boy to earn 
a livelihood. Ned is marooned on Spider Island, and while there dis- 
covers a wreck submerged in the sand, and tiuds a considerable amount 
of treasure. The capture of the treasure and the incidents of the 
voyagi! serve to make as entertaining a story of sea-life as the most 
captious boy could desire. 

The Search for the Silver City : A Tale of Adventure in 

Yucatan. By James Otis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 

Two lads, Teddy Wright and Neal Emery, embark on the steam 
yacht Day Dream for a cruise to the tropics. The yacht is destroyeti 
by fire, and then the boat is cast upon the coast of Yucatan. They 
hear of the wonderful Silver City, (t the Chan Santa Cruz Indians, 
and with the help of a faithful Iniiian ally carry off a number of the 
golden images from the temples. Pursued witu relentless vigor at last 
their escape is effected in au astonishing manner. The story is so 
full of exciting incidents that the reader is quite carried away with 
the novelty and realism of the narrative. 

A Runaway Brig; or. An Accidental Cruise. By 

James Otis. ISmo, cloth, Illustrated, price $1.00. 

This is a sea tale, and the reader can look out upon the wide shimmer- 
ing sea as it flashes back the sunlight, and imat'ine himself afloat with 
Harry Vandyne, Walter Morse, Jim Libby and that old shell-back, Bob 
Brace, on the brig Bonita. The boys discover a mysterious document 
which enables them to find a buried treasure. They are stranded on 
an island and at last are rescued with the treasure. The boys are sure 
to be fascinated with this entertaining story. 

The Treasure Finders: A Boy's Adventures in 

Nicarajcua. By James Otis ISmo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 

Roy and Dean Coloney, with their guide Tongla, leave their father's 
Indigo plantation to visit the wonderful ruins of an ancient city. The 
boys eagerly explore the temples of an extinct race and discover three 
golden images cunningly hidden away. They escape with the greatest 
difficulty. Eventually they reach safety with their golden prizes. We 
doubt if there ever was written a more entertaining story than "The 
Treasure Finfler.s." 

Jack, the Hunchback. A Story of the Coast of Maine. 

By James Otis. Price $1.00. 

This is the story of a little hunchback who lived on Cape Elizabeth, 
on the coast of Maine. His trials and successes are most interesting. 
From first to last nothing stays the interest of the narrative. It bears us 
along as on a stream whose current varies in direction, but never loses 
its force. 

With Washington at Monmouth: A Story of Three 

Philadelphia Boys. By James Otis. 12mo, ornamental cloth, olivine 

edges, illustrated, price §1.50. 

Three Philadelphia lads assist the American spies and make regular 
and frequent visits to Valley Forse in the Winter while the British 
occupied the city. The story abounds with pictures of Colonial life 
skillfully drawn, and the glimpses of Wa.shineton's soldiers which are 
given shown that the v.'ork has not been hastily done, or without con- 
siderable study. The story is wholesome and patriotic In tone, as are 
all of Mr. Otis' works. 

For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
publisher, A. L. BURT, 52-58 Duane Street, New York. 



4 A. L. BURT'S BOOKS FOR SOUNG PEOPLE. 

BOOKS FOR BOYS. 

With Lafayette at Yorktown: A Story of How Two 

Boys Joined the Continental Army. Bv James Otis. 12mo, ornamental 

cloth, olivine edges, illustrated, price SI -50. 

Two lads from Portmovith, N. H., attempt to enlist In the Colonial 
Army, and are given employment as spies. There Is no lack of escitinij 
Incidents which the youthful reader craves, but it is healthful excite- 
ment brimming with facts which every boy should be familiar with, 
and while the reader is following the adventures of Ben JafTravs and 
Ned Allen he is aciiuiring a fund of historical lore which will "remain 
In his memory long after that which he has memorized from text- 
books has been forgotteu. 

At the Siege of Havana. Being the Experiences of 

Three Boys Serving under Israel Putnam in 176"^. By James Otis. ISmo 

ornamental cloth, olivine e<1ges, illusitrated. price SI. 5(3. 

"At the Siege of Havana" deals with that portion of the Island's 
history wheu the English king captured the capital, thanks to the 
assistance given by the troops from New England, led in part by Col. 
Israel Putnam. 

The principal characters are Darius Lunt, the lad who, represented as 
telling the story, and his comrades, Robert Clement and Niclioljis 
Vallet. Colonel Putnam also figures to considerable extent, necessarily. 
In the tale, and the whole forms one of the most readable stories founded on 
historical facts. 

The Defense of Fort Henry. A Story of Wheeling 

Creek in 1777. Bv James Otis. ISnio, ornamental cloth, olivine edges, 

illustrated, price $1.50. 

Nowhere in the histor.v of our country can be fonnd more heroic or 
thrilling Incidents than In the story of th>-ise brave men and women 
who founded the sottlement of Whi-eling in the Colony of Virginia. Tiie 
recital of what Elizabeth Zane did is in itsolf as htroic a story as cm 
be imagined. The wondrous bravery displayed by Ma.1or McCull-ich 
and his gallant comrades, the sufferings of the colonists and their sacrifice 
of blood and life, stir the blood of old as well as young readers. 

The Capture of the Laughing Mary, A Story of Tlirco 

New York Boys in 1776. By James Otis. r2mo, ornamental cioth, olivino 

edges, price §1.50. 

"During the British occupancy of New Tork, at the outbreak of the 
Revolution, a Yankee lad hears of the plot to take General Washington's 
person, and calls in two companions to assist the patriot cause. The.v 
do some astonishing things, and. incide;it;iUy, lay the wa.r for an 
American navy later, by the exploit which gives its name to the 
work. Mr. Otis" Ixioks are too well known to reauire any particular 
commendation to the young." — Evening Post. 

With Warren at Bunker Hill, A Story of the Siege of 

Boston. By .T.ames Otis. V2mo. ornametnal cloth, olivine edges, illus- 

tratetl, price §1.50. 

"This Is a tale of the siege of Boston, which opens on the day after 
the doinj;s at Lexiustoii and Concorvi. with a dest riptSe'i .f "r.i>rac ;;;"e 
In Boston. tiitro<1uces the reader to the British camp at Charlestown, 
shows Oeu. Warren at home, desoril es wbai a boy t)i.>i:jrbt of the 
battle of Bunker Hill, and closes with the raising of the sie.^e. The 
thrive heroes. George Weutwortb. Ben Scarl>-tC tnd au old rooeuiuker. 
Incur the enmity of a young Tory, who causes them many adventures 
the boys will like to read." — Detroit Free Press. 

For sale bv all iKKiksellers. or sent p<istpaid on receipt of price by the 
publisher, A.' L. BXTBT, 52-58 Suane Street, New Yorb. 



A. L. BURT'S books FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 5 

OR BOYS, 

With tine Swamp Fox. The Story of General Marion'8 

Spies. By Jamks Oxia. liiino, cloth, illustraled, price $1.0U. 

This story deals with Gi'm-nil li'niucis Marlon's heroic struggle In tho 
Carolinas. (jpimral Marlon's arrival to take command of these bravo 
men and rough riders is pictured as a boy might have seen It, uud 
although the story is devoted to what the lads did, the Swamp Fox 
is ever present in the mind of the reader. 

On the Kentucky Frontier. A Story of the Fighting 

Pioneers of tho West. By Jawks Otis. 12uio, cloth, illustrated, pi-ice $1. 

In the history of our country there is no more thrilling story than 
that of the work done on the Mississippi river by ii handful of frontiers- 
men. Mr. Otis takes the reader on that famous expedition from the 
arrival of Major Clarke's force at Corn Island, until Kaskaskla was 
captured. He relates that part of Simon Kenton's life history which 
Is not usually touched upon either by the historian or the story teller. 
This is one of the most entertaining books for young people which has 
been published. 

Sarah Dillard's Ride. A Story of South Carolina in 

in 1780. by James Otis. i:imo, clotli, illustrated, price Si. 00. 

"This book deals with the Carolinas In 1780, giving a wealth of detail of 
the Mountain Men who struggled so valiantly against the king's troops. 
Major Ferguson Is the prominent British officer of the story, which is 
told as though coming from a youth who experienced these adventures. 
In this way the I'arnuiit! ride of Sarah Dillard Is brought out as au 
Incident of the plot." — Boston Journal. 

A Tory Plot. A Story of the Attempt to Kill General 

Washington. By James Oti.s. I'Jmo, cloth, illustrated, crice $1.00. 

" 'A Tory Plot' Is the story of two lads who overhear something 
of the plot originated during the llevolution l)y (Jov. Tryon to capture 
or murder Washington. They communicate their knowledge to Gen. 
Putnam and are commissioned by him to play the role of detectives 
in the matter. They do s.i, and 'ne(>t with many adv(>ntures and hair- 
breadth escapes. The boys are, of cour:je, mythical, but they serve to en- 
able the author to put into very attractive shape nuieii valuable knowledge 
concerning one phase of the Revolution." — Pittsburgh Times. 

A Traitor s Escape. A Story of the Attempt to Seize 

Benedict Arnold, By James Otls. ]3mo, cloth, illustrated, price f 1.00. 

"This is a tale with stirring scenes depicted In each chapter, bringing 
clearly before the mind the glorious deeds of the early settlers in this 
country. In an historical work dealinsj with this country's past, no 
plot can hold the attention closer tlKi;i tliia one, which dc'scrilies the 
attempt and partial success of Benedict Arnold's escape to New York, 
where he remained as the gueat of Sir Henry Clinton. All those who 
actually figured in the arrest of tli<^ traitor, as Well as Gen. Washing- 
ton, are included as characters." — Albany Union, 

A Cruise with Paul Jones. A Story of Naval Warfare 

in 1770. By James Oris. ];!tuo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 

"This story taki-s up that portion of Paul .Tones' adventurous life 
when he was hovering off the British coast, watching for an oppor- 
tunity to strike tiie enemy a blow. It di'ais more particularly vk'ith 
his descent upon Whitehaven, the seizure of La<ly Selkirk's plate, and 
the famous battle with the Diuke. The hoy uiio ligures in the tale 
is one who was taken from a derelict by Paul .lones shortly after this 
particular cruise was begun." — Chicago Inter-Occan. 

For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price By tbe 
publisher, A. L. BUKT. 52-68 Duaue Street, New York. 



A. L. BURT'G books FOE YOUNG PEOPLE. 



Corporal Lige's Recruit. A Story of Crown Point and 

Ticonderoga. By Jambs Otis. 12aio, cloth, illustrated, price $1,00. 

"In 'Corporal Lige's Recruit,' Mr. Otis tells the amuslDK story of an 
old soldier, proud of his record, who had served the king in '58. and who 
takes the lad, Isaac Rice, as his 'personal recruit.' The lad acquits 
himself superbly. Col. Ethan Allen 'in the name of God and the con- 
tinental congress,' infuses much martial spirit into the narrative, which 
will arouse the keenest interest as it proceeds. Crown Point. Ticon- 
deroga, Benedict Arnold and numerous other famous historical names 
appear in this dramatic tale." — Boston GlOiie. 

Morgan, the Jersey Spy. A Story of the Siege of York- 
town in 1781. By James Otis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
"The two lads who are utilized by the author to emphasize the details 
of the work done during that memorable time were real boys who lived 
on the banks of the York river, and who aided the .Jersey spy in his 
dangerous occupation. In the guise of fishermen the lads visit York- 
town, are suspected of being spies, and put under arrest. Morgan risks 
his life to save them. The final escape, the thrilling encounter with a 
squad of red coats, when they are exposed equally to the bullets of 
friends and foes, told in a masterly fashion, makes of this volume one 
of the most entertaining books of the year." — Inter-Ocean. 

The Youngs Scout: The Story of a West Point Lieu- 
tenant. By Edward S. Ellis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
The crafty Apache chief Geronimo but a few years ago was the 
most terrible scourjre of the southwest border. The author has woven, 
in a tale of thrilling interest, all the incidents of Geronimo's last raid. 
The hero is Lieutenant James Decker, a recent graduate of West Point. 
Ambitious to distinguish himself the young man takes many a desperate 
chance against the enemy and on more than one occasion narrowly 
escapes with his life. In our opinion Mr. Ellis is the best writer of 
Indian stories now before the public. 

Adrift in the Wilds: The Adventures of Two Ship- 
wrecked Boys. By Edward S. Ellis. 12nio, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
Elwood Brandon and Howard Lawrence are en route for San Fran- 
cisco. Off the coast of California the steamer takes fire. The two boys 
reach the shore with several of the passengers. Young Brandon be- 
comes separated from his party and is captured by hostile Indians, 
but is afterwards rescued. This is a very entertaining narrative of 
Southern California. 

A Young Hero; or, Fighting to Win. By Edward S. 

Ellis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price Sl-00. 

This story tells how a valuable solid silver service was stolen from 
the Misses Perkinpine, two very old and simple minded ladies. Fred 
Sheldon, the hero of this story, undertakes to discover the thieves and 
have them arrested. After much time spent in detective work, he 
succeeds in discovering the silver Tdate and winning the reward. The 
story is told in Mr. Ellis' most fascinating style. Every boy will be 
glad to read this delightful book. 

Lost in the Rockies. A Story of Adventure in the 

Rocky Mountains. By Edward S. Ellis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1. 

Incident succeeds Incident, and adventjre is piled upon adventure, 
and at the end the reader, be he boy or man, will have experienced 
breathless enjoyment in this romantic story describing many adventures in 
the Rockies and among the Indians. 

For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
publisher, A, L. BUKI, 62-68 Duane Street, Kew York. 



A. L. BUET^S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 



BOOKS FOR BOYS. 

A Jaunt Throiig'h Java: The Story of a Journey to 

the Sacred Mountain. By Edward S. Eixis. l2mo, cloth, illustrated, 

price $1.00. 

The interest of this story is found in the thrilling adventures of 
two cousiiii5, Hermon and Eustace Hadley, on their trip acrosss the island 
of Java, from Samarang to the Sacred Mountain. In a land where the 
Royal Bengal tiger, the rhinoceros, and other fierce beasts are to be 
met with, it is but natural that the heroes of this book should have a 
lively esperience. There is not a dull page in the book. 

The Boy Patriot. A Story of Jack, the Young Friend 

of Washington. By Edward S. Ellis. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, illus- 
trated, price S1.50. 

"There are adventures of aM kinds for the hero and his friends, whose 
pluck and ingenuitjr in extricating themselves from awkward fixes are 
always equal to the occasion. It is an excellent story full of honest, 
manly, patriotic efforts on the part of the hero. A very vivid description 
of the battle of Trenton is also found in this story." — Journal of 
Education. 

A Yankee Lad's Pluck. How Bert Larkin Saved his 

Father's Ranch in Porso Rico. By Wm. P. Chipmak. ISmo, cloth, illus- 
trated, price $1.00. 

"Bert Larkin, the hero of the story, early excites our admiration, 
and is altogether a fine character such as boys will delight in, whilst 
the story of his numerous adventures is very graphically told. This 
will, we think, prove one of the most popular boys' books this season," — 
Gazette. 

A Brave Defense. A Story of the Massacre at Fort 

Griswold in 1781. By William P. Chipman. 12mo, cioth, illustrated, pries 

ll.OO. 

Perhaps no more gallant fight against fearful odds took place during 
the Revolutionary War than that at Port Griswold, Groton Heights, Conn., 
in 1781. The boys are real boys who v.ere actually on the muster rolls, 
either at Fort Trumbull on the New London side, or of Fort Griswold on 
the Groton side of the Thames. The youthful reader who follows Halsey 
Sanford and Levi Dart and Tom Mallcson, and their equally brave com- 
rades, through their thrilling adventures will be learning something more 
than historical facts; they will be imbibing lessons of fidelity, of bravery, 
of heroism, and of manliness, which must prove serviceable in the arena 
of life. 

The Young Minuteman. A Story of the Capture of 

General Prescott in 1777. By William P. Chipilan. 12aio, cloth, illustrated, 

price $1.00. 

This story is based upon actual events which occurred during the British 
occupation of the waters of Narragansett Bay. Darius Wale and William 
Northrop belong to, "the coast patrol." The story is a strong one, dealing 
only with actual events. There is, however, no lack of thrilling adventure, 
and every lad who is fortunate eaough to obtain the book will find not 
only that his historical knowledge is increased, but that his own patriotism 
and love of country are deepened. 

For the Temple: A Tale of the Fall of Jerusalem. 

By G. A. Henty. With illustrations by S. J. Solomon. 12mo, cloth, olivine 
edges, price |1.00. 

"Mr. Henty's graphic prose picture of the hopeless Jewish resistance 
to Roman sway adds another leaf to his record of the famous wars of 
the world. The book is one of Mr. Henty's cleverest efforts." — Graphic. 

For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by tha 
publisher, A. L, BTJBLT, 52-68 Duane Street, New York. 



A. L. BURT S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 



BOOKS FOR BOYS. 

Roy Gilbert's Search : A Tale of the Great Lakes. By 

Wm. p. Ohipman. I'Juio, cloth, illusti-ated, in-ice §1.00. 

A deep mysterj- hanss over tbe p.'xrentage of Roy Gilbert. He arranges 
with two schoolmates to make a tour of the Great Lakes on a steam 
laauch. The three bo.vs visit many points of interest on the lakes. 
Afterwards the lads reseue iin elderly gentleman and a lady from a sink- 
ing yacht. Later ou the boys uarrowiy e.scape with their lives. The 
hero is a manly, self-reliant boy, whose adventures will be followed 
with interest. 

The Slate Picker: The Story of a Boy's Life in the 

Coal Mines. By H.\rhy Prkntics. ISuio, clotli, illustrated, price $1.00. 

This Is a story of a boy's life in the coal mines of Pennsylvania. 
Ben Burton, the hfro, had a hard road to travel, but by grit and energy 
he advanced step by step until he found himself called upon to fill the 
position of chief engineer of the Kohinoor Coal Company. This is a 
b<Hib of extreme interest to every boy reader. 

The Boy Cruisers; or, Paddling in Florida. By St, 

George Rathbornk. lihiio, cloth, illustrated, price jil.OO 
Andrew George and Rowland Carter start on a canoe trip along the 
Gulf coast, from Key West to Tampa, Florida. Their first adventure 
Is with a pair of rascals who steal their boats. Next they run Into 
a gale in the Gulf. .Vfter that they have a lively time with alli- 
gators and Andrew gets into trouble with a baud of Seminole Indian;^. 
Mr. Rathliorne knows just how to interest the boys, and lads who are 
in search of a rare treat will do well to read this entertaining story. 

Captured by Zulus: A Story of Trapping in Africa. 

By Haury Prentice. 13nio, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 

This story details the adventures of two lads, Dick Elsworth and Bob 
IlMrv.-y, in the wilds of South Africa. By stratagem the Zulus capture 
Dick and Bob and take them to their principal krasl or villagi-. Tl-.e 
lads escape death by dig ing their wa.v out of the prison hut by night. 
The.v are pursued, but the Zulus finally give up pursuit. Mr. Prentice 
tells exactly how wild-beast collectors secure specimens on their native 
stumping groiuids, and these descriptions make very entertaining rending. 

Tom the Ready; or. Up from the Lowest. By Ean- 

DOLPH ITii.L. l:2iiic, cloth, illustrat^?d, price Si. 00. 

This is a dramatic narrative of the unaided rise of a fearless, nniM- 
tlous boy from the lowest round of fortune's ladder to wealth and the 
governorship of his native State. Tom Seacomb begins life with a pur- 
pose, and eveiituall.v overcome.* those who oppose him. How he niana;re;i 
to win the battle is told by Mr. Hill in a masterfi ' way that thrills 
the reader and holils his attention and sympathy to tiie end. 

Captain Kidd's Gold: The Trne Story of an Adven- 
turous Sailor Boy. By James Franklin Fitts. lS?mo, cloth, illustrated, 
price $l.tX). 

There is something fascinating to the average .vouth in the very idea 
of buried treasure. .\ vision arises before his eyes of swarthy P.ivtu- 
guese and Spanish rascals, with black beards and gleaming eyes. There 
were many famous sea rovers, but none more eelebrnted than Capt. Kidd. 
Paul Jones Garry inherits a document which locates a considerable 
treasure buried by two of Kidd's crew. The hero of this book is an 
ainl>itlous, persevering lad, of salt-water New lOngland ancestry, and bl3 
efforts to reach the island and secure the money form ooc of the most 
alisorbing tales for our youth that has come from the pr«>ss. 

For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid ou receipt of price by tbtf 
publisher, A. L, BURT, 52-58 Duane Street, New York, 



A. L. BURT^S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 9 

BOOKS FOR BOYS. 

The Boy Explorers: The Adventures of Two Boys in 

Alaska. By Harky Prkntice. l2ruo, cloth, illuKtratecl, price $1.0(1. 

Two boys, KaymoQil and Spencer Manning, travrl to Alaska to join 
tlu'Ir father In search of their uncle. On their arrival at Sitka the boys 
with an Indian guide set off across the uiounlalns. The trip is fruuglit 
with perils that test the lads' couraf-i' to the utmost. All through their 
exciting adventures the lads demonstrate what can be accomplished by 
pluck and resolution, and their experience makes one of the moat in- 
teresting tales ever written. 

The Island Treasure; or, Harry Barrel's Fortune. 

By Frank H. Convkrsk. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price SI -00, 
Uurry Darrel, having received a nautical training on a school-ship, is 
bent on going to sea. A runaway horse changes his prospects. Harry 
saves Dr. Gregg from drowning and afterward becomes sailiiig-niasler 
of a sloop yacht. Mr. Converse's stories possess a charm of their own 
which Is appreciated by lads who delight In good healthy tales that 
smack of salt water. 

Guy Harris: The Runaway. By Harry Castlemon. 

ISuio, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 

Guy Harris lived in a small city on the shore of one of the Great 
Lakes. He is persuaded to go to sea, and gets a glimpse of the rough 
Bide of life in a sailor's boarding house. He ships on a vessel and for 
Ave months leads a hard life. The book will interest boys generally 
ou account of Its graphic sty la. This is one of Castlemun's mo&t attract- 
ive stories. 

Julian Mortimer: A Brave Boy's Struggle for Home 

and Fortune. By Harry Casti,kmon. 12ino, cloth, illustrated, price $1. 

The scene of the story lies west of the Mississippi River, in the days 
when emigrants made their perilous way across the great plains to the 
land of gold. There is an attack upon the wagon train b.v a large party 
of Indians. Our hero Is a 'ad of uncommon nerve and pluck. Befriended 
by a stalwart trapper, a real rough diamond, our hero achieves the most 
happy results. 

By Pike and Dyke: A Tale of the Rise of the Dutch 

Republic. By G. A. Henty. With illustrations by Maynard Brown. 

12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 

"Boys with a turn for historical research will be enchanted with the 
book, while the resit who only care for adventure will be students in spite 
of themsolv< s."— St. James's Gazette. 

St. George for England: A Tale of Cressy and Poi- 
tiers. By G. A. HsNTY. With illustrations by Gordon Browne. 12mo, 
cloth, olivine edp:es, price $1.00. 

"A story of very great interest for boys. In his own forcible style 
the author has endeavored to show that determination and enthusiasm 
can accomplish nmrvtlious results; and that courage is generally accom- 
panied by magiumimlty and gentleness." — Pall Mall Gazette. 

Captain Eayley's Heir: A Tale of the Gold Fields of 

California. By (i. A. Hknty. With illustrations by H. M. Paget. ]2mo. 

cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 

"Mr. Henty is careful to mingle Instruction with entertainment; and 
the humorous touches, especially in the sketch of John Holl, the West- 
minster dustman, Dickens himself could hardly have excelled." — Chris- 
tian Loader. 

For sale by all booUsellerH, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
publisher, A. L. BURT, 62-58 Duane Streut, New York. 



10 A. L. BURT^S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOi'Lfi. 



BOOKS FOR BOYS. 



Eudd Boyd's Triumph; or, The Boy Firm of Fox Island. 

By William P. Chipman. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price |1.00. 

The scene of this story is laid oa the upper part of Narragansett Bay, 
and the leading incidents have a strong salt-water flavoi*. The twc 
boys, Budd Boyd and Judd Floyd, being ambitious and clear sighted, 
form a partnership to catch and sell fish. Budd's plucli and good sense 
carry him through many troubles. In following the career of the boy 
firm of Boyd & Floyd, the youthful reader will find a useful lesson — 
that industry and perseverance are bound to lead to ultimate success. 

Lost in the Canyon: Sam Willett's Adventures on the 

Great Colorado. By Ai jfred R. Calhoun. ISmo, cloth, illustrated, price $1, 
This story hinges on a fortune left to Sam Willett, the hero, and the 
fact that it will pass to a disreputable relative if the lad dies before 
he shall have reached his majority. The story of his father's peril and 
of Sam's desperate trip down the great canyon on a raft, and how the 
party finally escape from their perils is described in a graphic style 
that stamps Mr. Calhoun as a master of his art. 

Captured by Apes: The Wonderful Adventures of a 

Younp Animal Trainer. By Harry Prentice. 12mo, cloth, illustrated. 

price Igl.OO. 

Philip Garland, a young animal collector and trainer, sets sail for 
Eastern seas in quest of a new stock of living curiosities. The vessel 
is wrecked off the coast of Borneo, and young Garland is cast ashore 
on a small island, and cantured by the apes that overrun the place. 
Very novel indeed is the way by which the young man escapes death. 
Mr. Prentice is a writer of undoubted skill. 

Under Drake's Flag: A Tale of the Spanish Main. 

By G. A. Henty. With illustrations by Gordon Browne. 12ino, cloth, 

olivine edges, price $1.00. 

"There Is not a dull chapter, nor, Indeed, a dull page in the book; but 
the author has so carefully worked up his subject that the exciting 
deeds of his heroes are never incongruous nor absurd." — Observer. 

By Sheer Pluck: A Tale of the Ashanti War. Bj 

G. A. Henty. With illustrations by Gordon Browne. 12mo, cloth, olivine 

edges, price $1.00. 

The author has woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the details 
of the Ashanti campaign, of which he was himself a witness. 

"Mr. Henty keeps up his reputation as a writer of boys' stories. 'By 
Sheer Pluck' will be eagerly read." — AthenMum, 

With Lee in Virginia : A Story of the American Civil 

War. By G. A. Henty. With illuttratious by Gordon Browne. 12mo, 

cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 

"One of the best stories for lads which Mr. Henty has yet written. 
The picture is full of life and color, and the stirring and romantic inci- 
dents are skillfnily blended with the personal interest and charm of the 
story." — Standard. 

By England's Aid; or, The Freeing of the Netherlands 

(3585-1604). ByG. A. Henty. With illustrations by Alfred Pearse. 13mo. 

cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 

"It is an admirable book for youngsters. It overflows with stirring 
incident and exciting adventure, and the color of the era and of the 
scene are finely reproduced. The illustrations add to its attractiveness." — 
Boston Gazette. 

For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
publisher, A. L. BVBX, 82-S8 Buane Street, New York. 



A. L. BURT^S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 11 



BOOKS FOR BOYS. 



By Eig-lit of Conquest; or, With Cortez in Mexico. 

By G. A. Henty. 'With illustrations by W. S. Stagey. 12mo, ciotli, 

olivine edges, jirice £1..%. 
"The coDqiicst of Mexico by a small band of rpsolntn men undov the 
magniliceut leadership of Cortez is aivvays rightfully ranked among the most 
i-omantic and daring exploits in history. 'By Risht of Conquest' is the 
neaiest approach to a perfectly successful historical tale that Mr. Heaty 
has yet published." — Acad: n;-. 

for Hame and Fdme; or, Tlirough. Afghan Passes. 

By G. A. Hentt. With iilustratious by Gordon Browne. 12mo, cloth, 

olivine edges, price $1 .00. 

"Not only a rousing story, replete with all the varied forms of excite- 
ment of a campaign, but, what is still more useful, an account of a 
territory and its itihabltHnta which must for a long time possess a supremo 
Interest for Eniflisbmen, as being the key to our Indian Empire." — 
Glasgow Herald. 

Tlie Bravest of the Brave; or. With Peterborough in 

Spain. By G, A. Henty. With illustrations by H. M. Paget. 13mo 

cloth, olivine edges, price 81-00. 

"Mr. Henty never loses sight of the moral purpose of his work — to 
enforce the doctrine of courage and truth, mercy and loving kindness, 
as indispensable to the making of a gentleman. Boys will read 'The 
Bravest of the Brave' with pleasure and profit; of that we are quite 
sure." — Daily Telag-raph. 

The Cat of BubastesiA Story of Ancient Egypt. By 

G. A. Henty. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 

"The story, from the critical motceut of the killing of the sacred cat 

to the perilous exodus into Asia with which it closes. Is very skillfully 

constructed and full of exciting adventures. It is admirably Illustrated." 

— Baturday Retriew. 

Bonnie Prince Charlie: A Tale of Fontenoy and Cul- 

loden. By G. A. Henty. With illustrations by Gordon Bro'vnk. ISmo, 

cloth, olivine edges, price 51.00. 

"Ronald, the hero, is very like the hero of 'Quentin Durward.' The 
lad's journey across France, and hlg hairbreadth escapes, makes up a3 
good a narrative of the kind as Vve have ever read. For freahness of 
treatment and variety of incident Mr. Henty has surpassed himself." — 
Spectator. 

With Clive in India ; or. The Beginnings of an Empire. 

By G. A. Henty. With illustrations by Gordon Browne. 13mo, cloth, 

olivine edges, price $1.00. 

"He has taken a period of Indian history of the most vital Impor- 
tance, and he has embroidered on the historical facts a story which of 
itself Is deeply interesting. Young people assuredly will be delighted 
with the volume." — Scotsman. 

In the Reign of Terror: The Adventures of a West- 
minster Boy. By G. A. Hbnt^'. With illustrations by J. Sohonbers. 
13mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
"Harry Sandwith, the Westminster boy, may fairly be said to beat 

Mr. Henty 's record. His adventures will delight boys by the audacity 

and peril they depict. The story is one of Mr. Henty's best." — Saturday 

Review. 

For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt cf fiic^ by tbo 
publisher, A, L, ByHX, $2-&8 DuaiiQ Street, ITew York. 



12 A. t. BURT^S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 



BOOKS FOR BOYS. 

The Lion of the SJorth : A Tale of Gustavus Adolphus 

and the Wars of Religion. By G. A. Henty. With illustrations by John 

ScHONBEUG. 12tno, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 

"A prai.seworthy attpmpt to interest British youth In the great deeds 
of the Scotch Brijjado in the wars of Gustavus Adolphus. Mackey, Hep- 
bum, and Munro live again in Mr. Henty's pages, as tho.so deserve to 
live whose disciplined bands formed really the germ of the modern 
British army." — AthenaBum. 

The Dragon and the Raven; or, The Days of King 

Alfred. By G. A. Henty. With illustrations by C. J. Staniland. 13mo, 

cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 

In this story the author gives an account of the fierce struggle be- 
tween Saxon and Dane for supremacy In England, and presents a vivid 
picture of the misery and ruin to which the country was reduced by the 
ravages of the sea-wolves. The story is treated in a manner most at' 
tractive to the boyish reader." — Athenaeum. 

The Young Carthaginian: A Story of the Times of 

Hannibal. By G. A. Henty. With illustrations by C. J. Staniland. 12mo, 

cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 

"Well constructed and vividly told. From first to last nothing stays 
the Interest of the narrative. It bears us along as on a stream whose 
current varies in direction, but never loses its force." — Saturday Review. 

In Freedom's Cause: A Story of Wallace and Bruce. 

B.y G. A. Henty. With illustrations by Gordon Browne. 12mo, cloth, 
olivine edges, price $1.00. 

"It is written in the author's best style. Full of the wildest and most 
remarkable achievements, it Is a tale of great interest, which a boy, once 
he has begun it, will not willingly put one side." — The Schoolmaster. 

With Wolfe in Canada; or. The Winning of a Con- 
tinent. By G. A. Henty. With illustrations by Gordon Browne. 12mo, 
cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 

"A model of what a boys' story-book should be. Mr. Henty has a 
great power of infusing into the dead facts of history new life, and as 
no pains are spared by him to ensure accuracy in historic details, his 
books supply useful aids to study as well as amusement." — School Guard- 
ian. 

True to the Old Flag: A Tale of the American War of 

Independence. By Q. A. Henty. With illustrations by Gordon Browne. 

12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 

"Does justice to the pluck and determination of the British soliders 
during the unfortunate struggle against American emancipation. The son 
of an American loyalist, who remains true to our flag, falls among the 
hostile red-skins In that very Huron country which has been endeared 
to us by the exploits of Hawkeye and Chlngachgook." — The Times. 

A Final Reckoning: A Tale of Bush Life in Aus- 
tralia. By G. A. Henty. With illustrations by W. B. Wollen. 12mo, 
cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
"All boys will read this story with eager and unflagging interest. The 

episodes are in Mr. Henty's very best vein — graphic, exciting, realistic; 

and, as in all Mr, Henty's books, the tendency Is to the formation of an 

honorable, manly, and even heroic character." — Birmingham Post. 

For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
publisher, A. L. BV&T, 62-58 I)uan« Street, New Tork. 



A. L. BUKT'S cooks FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 13 



BOOKS FOR BOYS. 

The Lion of St. Mark: A Tale of Venice in the Four- 
teenth Century. By G. A. Henty. With illustrations by Gordon Brownb. 
12mo, cloth, oliviue edges, price $1.00. 
"Every boy should read "Tho Lion of St. Mark.' Mr. Honty has never 

prodi;f.>a a story more delightlui, more wholesome, or more vivacious." — 

Saturday Koview. 

Facing 3)eath; or, The Hero of the Vaiighan Pit. A 

Telle of the Coal Mines. By G. A. Henty. With illustrations by Gohdoh 
Browne. 13mo, cloth, olivine ed^es, pries $1.00. 

"Tbe tale Is well writtou and well Illustrated, and there is miiob 
reality in the characters. If any father, clergyman, or schoolma.sici 
is on the lookout for a good hook to give as a present to a bo.y who :r 
worth his salt, this is tbe book we would recommend." — Standard. 

Maori and Settler: A Story of the New Zealand War. 

By G. A. Henty. With illustrations by Alfred Pkarsk. 12mo, cloth. 

olivine edges, price $1.00. 

"In the adventures among the Maoris, there are many breathleso 
moments in which the odds seem hopelessly against the party, but they 
succeed In establishing themselves happily in one of the pleasant New 
Zealand valleys. It is brimful of adventure, of humorous and interesting 
conversation, and vivid pictures of colonial life." — Schoolmaster. 

One of the 28th: A Tale of Waterloo. By G. A. 

Henty. With illustrations by W. H. Overend. 12mo, cloth, olivine 

edges, price fl.OO. 
"Written with Homeric vigor and heroic Inspiration. It is graphic,, 
picturesque, and dramatically effective . . . shows us Mr. Heut.v at 
his best and brightest. The adventures will hold a boy enthralled as he 
rushes through them with breathless interest 'from cover to cover.' " — 
Observer. 

Orange and Green: A Tale of the Boyne and Limer- 
ick. By G. A. Henty. With illustrations by Gordon Browne. 12mo, 
cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
"The narrative is free from the vice of prejudice, and ripples with 

life as if what is being described were really passing before the eye." — 

Belfast News-Letter. 

Through the Fray: A Story of the Luddite Eiots. 

By G. A. Henty. With illustrations by H. M. Paget. 12mo, cloth, olivine 

edge.-^. price $1.00. 

"Mr. Henty inspires a love and admiration for straightforwardness, truth 
and courage. This is one of the best of the many good books Mr. 
Henty has produced, and deserves to be classed with his 'Facing Death.' " 
— Standard. 

The Young Midshipman: A Story of the Bombard- 
ment of Alexandria. With illustrations. ]2mo, cloth, olivine edges 
price $1.00. 

A coast fishing lad, by an act of heroism, secures the interest of 
a shipowner, who places him as an apprentice on board one of his ships. 
In company with two of his fellow-apprentices he is left behind, at 
Alexandria, in the hands of the revolted Egyptian troops, and Is present 
through the bombardment and the scenes of riot and bloodshed which 
accompanied it. 

For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
publisher, A. I.. BVRI, 62-58 Ouane Street, New York. 



14 A. L. BURT^S BOOKS FOE YOUNG PEOPLE. 



BOOKS FOR BOYS. 

In Times of Peril. A Tale of India. By G. A. 

Henty. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 

The hero of the story early excites our admiration, and is altogether 
a. Uns character such as boys will dolisht in, whilst the Story oi; the 
campaign is very graphically told." — St. James's Gazette. 

The Cornet' of Horse: A Tale of Marlborough's Wars. 

By G. A. Henty. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price §1. 

"Mr. Henty not only concocts a thrilling tale, he weaves fact and fiction 
together with so skillful a hand that the reader cannot help acquiring a 
just and clear view of that fierce and terrible struggle known as the 
Crimean War." — Athenaeum. 

The Young Franc-Tireurs : Their Adventures in the 

Franco-Prussian AVar. By G. A. Henty. With illustrations. ISmo, cloth, 

olivine edges, price gl-OO. 

"A capital book for boys. It is bright and readable, and full of good 
sense and manliness. It teaches pluck and patience in adversity, and 
shows that right living leads to success." — Observer. 

The YoiiUg Colonists: A Story of Life and War in 

South Africa. By G. A. Henty. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine 

edges, price 51-00. 

"No boy needs to have any story of Henty's recommended to him, and 
parents who do .-ot know and buy them for their boys should be ashamed 
of themselves. Those to whom he is yet unknown could not make a 
better beginning than with this book. 

The Young Buglers. A Tale of the Peninsular War. 

By G. A. Henty. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1. 

"Mr. Henty is a giant among boys' writers, and his books are sufiB- 
ciently popular to be sure of a welcome anywhere. In stirring interest, 
this is quite up to the level of Mr. Henty's former historical tales."— 
Saturday Review. 

Sturdy and Strong; or, How George Andrews Made his 

Way. By G. A. Henty. With illustrations. 12mo. cloth, olivine edges, 

price $1.00. 

"The history of a hero of everyday life, whose love of trth, clothing of 
modest.v, and innate pluck, carry him, naturally, from poverty to aflJu- 
ence. George Andrews is an example of character with nothing to cavil 
at, and stands as a good instance of chivalry in domestic life." — The 
Empire. 

.Among Malay Pirates. A Story of Adventure and 

Peril. By G. A. Henty. With illustrations. ISmo, cloth, olivine edges, 

price $1.00. 

"Incident succeeds incident, and adventure is piled upon adventure, 
and at the end the reader, be he bo.v or man, will have experienced 
breathless enjoyment in a romantic story that must have taught him 
much at its close." — Army and Navy Gazette. 

Jack Archer. A Tale of the Crimea. By G. A. 

Henty. With illustrations. ISino, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 

"Mr. Henty not only concocts a thrilling t_le, he weaves fact and fiction 
together with so skillful a hand that the reader cannot help acquiring a 
just and clear view of that fierce and terrible struggle." — Athenaeum. 

For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
puhllsber, A. L. 3URT, 52-58 Suane Street, ITew York. 



